MARY  ADAMS 


Confessions  of  a 
Wife 


"THE  SECRETARY   WAS  READING  DUTIFULLY." 


Confessions  of  a 
Wife 

By 

Mary  Adams 


.  'f  I  1     «t  ^  H   7 


With   Illustrations 
by  Granville  Smith 


New  York 

The  Century  Co. 

1902 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published  October,  iqoz 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  secretary  was  reading  dutifully  ....      Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

I  was  half  startled  at  the  figure  I  saw  there       .     .      .  106 

With  Marion's  first  Christmas  tree  across  his  shoulder  160 

"My  poor  daughter!" 188 

"  Let  me  come,  Mrs.  Herwin" 286 

"Pity  Popper!"  said  Marion,  distinctly 324 


2135S43 


CONFESSIONS    OF 
A   WIFE 


CONFESSIONS  OF 
A  WIFE 


THE  night  is  wild  and  wet.  It  makes  faces 
at  me  when  I  go  to  the  window,  like  a  big 
gargoyle ;  it  has  the  dignity  that  belongs  to 
ugliness  and  character.  I  'm  afraid  I  was  born 
a  heathen  for  beauty's  sake ;  for  all  the  Christian 
there  is  in  me  —  and  that  is  scandalously  little 
—  is  kept  busy  going  into  sackcloth  and  doing 
penance  for  my  esthetic,  sins.  I  have  never 
loved  any  person  who  was  not  beautiful.  But 
then  I  have  never  loved  many  people — Father, 
and  poor  Ina. 

The  wind  starts  a  long  way  off  to-night,  and 
stirs  and  strengthens  with  a  terrible  deliberation. 
By  the  time  it  reaches  you,  nothing  can  with- 
stand it,  and  you  don't  care  whether  anything 
can  or  not.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  open  the  window 

3 


4         CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE 

and  let  myself  drop,  sure  that  it  would  lift  me 
up  and  carry  me,  and  I  should  n't  in  the  least 
mind  where.  I  dream  of  doing  that  often. 

To-day  I  found  something  which  pleased  me. 
It  was  in  that  old  French  book  of  Father's  that 
I  read  aloud  in  to  keep  up  my  accent.  It  was 
about  a  princess  in  a  shallop  on  a  river  —  no, 
I  '11  copy  it,  rather ;  it  seems  to  me  worth  while, 
which  is  saying  something,  for  most  things  do 
not  strike  me  that  way.  I  wish  I  knew  why. 

The  princess  was  a  sea-princess,  but  she  lived  in  an  inland 
country,  and  when  the  water-soul  within  her  called,  she  had 
only  a  river  wherewith  to  satisfy  it.  So  she  floated  out  in  her 
shallop  upon  the  river,  nor  would  she  let  any  person  guide 
the  shallop,  neither  her  men  nor  her  maidens,  but  loved  the 
feel  of  the  oar,  and  the  deference  of  it  to  her  own  soft  hands. 
And  she  chose  the  hour  that  precedes  and  follows  the  setting 
of  the  sun,  for  it  was  a  fair  hour,  and  the  river  was  comely. 
And  drifting,  she  thought  to  row,  and  rowing,  she  thought 
to  drift ;  so,  drifting  and  rowing,  she  had  her  will,  for  no 
one  gainsaid  her.  And  she  was  a  fair  princess,  though  a 
haughty,  and  many  men  crowned  her  in  their  hearts,  but  to 
none  of  them  did  she  incline.  And  certain  knights  took 
boats  and  sought  to  overtake  her  upon  the  river,  for  she 
seemed  to  drift.  But  when  they  drew  nearer  to  her,  drift- 
ing, they  perceived  that  she  was  rowing,  and,  row  they -never 
so  sturdily,  she  did  keep  the  shallop  in  advance  of  them,  nor 
did  she  concern  herself  with  them,  for  she  was  a  princess, 
and  she  had  the  sea  in  her  heart,  while  they  were  but  knights, 
and  contented  themselves  with  the  river,  having  been  born 


CONFESSIONS   OF   A    WIFE         5 

with  river-souls,  in  the  river  country.  And  these  wearied 
her,  so  that  she  rowed  the  stronger  for  her  disdain,  and 
escaped  them  all,  though  now  and  then  but  by  a  shallop's 
length. 

Now  it  chanced  that  there  appeared  upon  the  river  a  new 
oar,  being  the  oar  of  a  prince  who  did  disguise  himself,  but 
could  not  disguise  his  stroke ;  nor  did  he  row  like  these 
others,  the  knights  who  rowed  upon  the  river  for  her  sake 
who  disdained  them,  and  this  the  princess,  being  expert  in 
such  matters,  perceived.  But  the  prince  did  not  seek  to 
overtake  the  princess,  whereat  she  marveled ;  and  she  glanced 
backward  over  the  river,  and  observed  him  that  he  rowed 
not  to  overtake  her,  but  drifted  at  the  leisure  of  his  heart. 

And  every  day,  at  the  hour  which  precedes  and  follows 
the  setting  of  the  sun,  the  prince  drifted  at  the  leisure  of  his 
heart.  Then  did  the  leisure  pass  out  of  the  heart  of  the 
princess,  and  she  marveled  exceedingly,  both  at  herself  and  at 
him  who  did  not  overtake  her.  And  while  she  glanced,  she 
drifted.  And  it  befell  that  on  a  certain  day  she  glanced, 
and  behold,  he  was  rowing  steadily.  Then  the  princess 
bent  to  her  oars,  she  being  strong  and  beautiful,  and  so 
escaped  him  like  the  others,  and  he  saw  that  she  smiled  as 
she  escaped.  But  he  rowed  mightily,  for  he  was  a  prince, 
and  he  gained  upon  her.  And  she  perceived  that  he  gained 
upon  her,  and  it  did  not  suit  her  to  be  overtaken,  for  thus 
was  her  nature,  and  she  followed  her  nature,  for  she  was 
princess,  and  it  was  permitted  her.  And  she  smote  the 
water,  and  turned  her  shallop  swiftly,  and  disappeared  from 
his  sight,  and  from  the  sight  of  all  those  others  whom  he  had 
distanced  upon  the  river.  And  the  light  fell,  and  the  dusk 
rose,  and  they  twain,  the  escaped  and  the  pursuing,  the  flee- 
ing and  the  seeking,  were  alone  on  that  part  of  the  river. 
For  it  is  not  a  frequented  part  of  the  river.  And  the  prin- 


6         CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

cess  hid  from  him.  And  she  believed  him  to  have  passed 
by  unwitting,  so  she  stirred  in  her  shallop  to  find  her  oars, 
but  lo!  she  had  lost  them.  And  she  was  adrift  upon  the 
river,  and  it  was  dark.  Now,  while  she  sat  there  in  per- 
plexity, but  mute,  for  she  was  royal,  she  heard  the  motion  of 
oars,  as  they  had  been  muffled,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  follow 
the  sound  thereof,  for  it  was  a  subtle  stroke,  although  a 
mighty.  And  she  recognized  the  stroke,  and  she  remem- 
bered that  she  had  lost  her  oars. 

So  the  prince  lifted  her  into  his  own  shallop,  and  she,  for 
she  was  royal,  gainsaid  him  not. 

I  have  translated  as  I  copied,  and  the  mistakes 
will  speak  for  themselves,  as  mistakes  always  do. 
Of  course  it  is  a  version  of  Atalanta, —  one  of 
those  modem  things  that  copy  the  antique  with- 
out a  blush, —  yet  I  rather  like  it.  I  never  had 
any  patience  with  Atalanta. 

I  HAVE  been  pursued  all  day  by  a  fragment  that 
I  cannot  mend  or  join,  and  I  think  it  must  have 
come  from  some  delicate  Sevres  cup  or  vase,  of 
the  quality  that  breaks  because  it  is  so  beautiful : 

I  never  know  why  't  is  I  love  thee  so: 
I  do  not  think  't  is  that  thine  eyes  for  me 
Grow  bright  as  sudden  sunshine  on  the  sea. 

It  is  thy  face  I  see,  and  it  befell 

Thou  wert,  and  I  was,  and  I  love  thee  well. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE         7 

A  man  wrote  that,  I  'm  sure,  but  he  was  different 
from  men ;  and  no  woman  could  have  written  it, 
though  she  were  like  women.  I  must  ask  Father 
to  look  it  up  for  me.  He  is  the  most  accurate 
quoter  I  ever  knew,  and  I  suppose  I  have  his 
instinct  for  quotation,  without  his  accuracy.  I 
hate  etiquette,  barbed-wire  fences,  kindergarten 
cubes,  mathematics,  politics,  law,  and  dress-coats. 
I  like  to  wear  golf-skirts,  and  not  to  give  an 
account  of  myself,  and  to  run  about  the  grounds 
in  the  dark,  and  to  get  into  a  ruby  gown  before 
the  fire  and  write  like  this  when  I  come  in.  It 
is  one  of  the  nights  when  March  slips  into  the 
arms  of  May,  and  chills  her  to  the  heart.  I 
know  two  things  in  this  world  that  never,  never 
tire  me  and  always  rest  me  —  I  wonder  if  they 
always  will?  One  is  a  sunset,  and  the  other  is 
an  open  wood  fire. 

Mr.  Herwin  has  come  in,  and  is  reading  to 
Father ;  the  thick  ceiling,  floor,  and  carpet  break 
the  insistence  of  his  voice,  and  it  blurs  into  a 
rhythm,  like  the  sound  of  waves.  I  don't  alto- 
gether like  his  voice,  and  it 's  more  agreeable 
taken  through  a  medium  of  fresco  and  Wilton 
carpet.  Robert  Hazelton  had  a  pleasant  voice. 
Poor  Rob !  But  he  was  too  short,  and  he  is  very 
plain. 

Oh,  that  wind !     It  roars   like   a  fierce,  ele- 


8         CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

mental,  raging  creature  that  does  n't  know  what 
it  wants,  but  is  destined  to  have  it  at  any  cost. 
I  can't  help  that  feeling  that  if  I  opened  the 
window  and  just  let  myself  out,  the  storm  would 
be  kind  to  me,  and  I  should  be  upborne,  and 
swept  along  safely,  over  the  tops  of  trees,  as  I 
am  in  my  dreams  (they  are  usually  elms,  and 
very  high,  and  I  wonder  why  they  are  cultivated 
trees,  and  wish  they  were  pines  and  live-oaks, 
but  they  always  remain  elms),  and  I  think  I 
should  never  be  carried  too  high,  so  as  to  get 
frightened,  or  lost  among  clouds,  and  so  dashed 
down.  I  am  sure  I  should  stay,  like  a  captive 
balloon,  at  just  about  that  height,  within  sight 
of  earth  and  houses  and  people,  but  well  out  of 
their  reach,  and  floating  always,  now  wildly,  now 
gently,  if  it  stormed  or  if  it  calmed,  with  the  cold 
freedom  of  the  dead  and  the  warm  sentience  of 
the  living.  And  I  think  — 

Father  is  sure  not  to  miss  me ;  the  secretary  is 
good  for  another  hour  at  least.  The  next  best 
thing  to  jumping  out  of  the  window  is  to  get 
into  the  garden.  The  storm  is  growing  glori- 
ously worse.  I  believe  I  '11  go. 

I  WENT.  Golf-skirt  and  waterproof  and  rubber 
boots,  wind  in  the  face,  rain  on  the  head  —  I 
went.  Slapped  on  the  cheek,  smitten  in  the 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE         9 

eyes,  breath-beaten  and  storm-shaken,  a  fighter  of 
the  night  and  of  the  gale,  for  the  love  of  storms 
and  for  the  love  of  fighting,  that  was  I.  I  seem 
to  myself  to  have  been  a  creature  of  the  dark  and 
the  weather,  sprung  of  them,  as  the  wet  flowers 
were  sprung  of  the  earth,  and  the  falling  torrents 
were  born  of  the  clouds.  I  seem  to  myself  to 
have  been  a  thousandfold  more  myself  out  there. 
The  drawing-room  girl  in  low  dresses  and  trains, 
receiving  beside  her  father,  doing  the  proper 
thing,  saying  what  everybody  says, —  even  the 
girl  who  likes  Strauss  waltzes,  and  dances  once 
in  a  while  till  morning, —  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  this  other  girl,  like  distant  relatives.  The 
girl  in  the  garden  disowned  them,  and  did  n't 
care  a  raindrop  what  they  thought  of  her.  Oh, 
I  did  n't  care  what  anybody  thought  of  me ! 
What 's  the  sense  in  being  alive  if  you  can't  hurl 
away  other  people's  thoughts  and  respect  your 
own?  I  suppose,  if  it  comes  to  that,  it  's  well 
to  have  your  thoughts  respectable.  Truly,  I 
don't  think  mine  have  ever  been  disreputable. 
Come,  Mama  Trent !  Out  with  it !  Have  they  ? 
No  —  no.  I  really  don't  think  they  have.  I 
can't  answer  for  what  they  might  be,  if  it  stormed 
hard  enough,  and  I  'd  been  to  too  many  recep- 
tions, and  I  could  n't  get  into  rubber  boots  and 
a  waterproof  and  run  about  gardens. 


10       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  what  's  a 
garden  ?  The  walls  are  stone,  and  pretty  high ; 
there  are  broken  glass  bottles  all  along  the  top, 
to  keep  burglars  out  and  the  cat  in;  James 
locks  the  iron  gate  at  eleven ;  the  shrubbery  is 
all  trimmed  like  bushes  that  have  just  come  from 
the  barber's ;  there  is  n't  a  weed  to  be  seen,  and 
the  paths  are  so  narrow  that  I  get  my  golf-skirt 
wet.  Why,  if  I  were  a  man,  I  should  be  out- 
side, in  the  clubs,  the  streets,  the  theaters, —  God 
knows  where, —  doing  bohemian  things,  watching 
people  in  the  slums,  going  to  queer  places  with 
policemen,  tramping  up  and  down  and  watching 
the  colored  lights  on  the  long  bridges,  taking  tre- 
mendous walks  out  into  the  country,  coming 
home  at  any  hour,  with  a  latch-key,  and  wearing 
a  mackintosh  —  no,  I  should  wear  an  oil-coat, 
a  long  oil-coat,  and  a  fisherman's  sou'wester,  and 
I  should  go  —  I  wonder  where  *?  and  I  should 
do  —  I  wonder  what  *? 

But  I  am  a  girl;  and  I  stay  in  the  garden. 
And  that  's  bad  enough,  for  the  other  girls  don't 
care  about  gardens.  I  heard  a  woman  tell  an- 
other woman  one  day  that  I  was  "  very  impru- 
dent." She  said  I  "  went  out  evenings."  I  laughed 
then,  for  I  could  afford  to,  and  I  did  n't  care  what 
she  said.  I  don't  feel  so  much  like  laughing  now. 
The  worst  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life  I  've  done 
to-night  within  the  last  half-hour. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       11 

I  'm  glad  that  woman  does  n't  know  it. 

I  have  n't  been  outside  of  my  father's  garden, 
either.  And  you  know,  Marna  Trent,  how  much 
you  respect  your  father's  garden.  In  the  first 
place,  it  's  a  garden,  and  in  the  next,  it  's  your 
father's.  I  believe  the  storm-soul  got  me,  as 
the  water-soul  took  Undine,  when  nobody  ex- 
pected it. 

"  tfhe  princess  was  a  sea-princess,  but  she  lived  in 
an  inland  country " —  poor  thing !  I  always 
thought  I  should  like  to  go  to  school  with  a 
princess,  and  be  able  to  say  "  Poor  thing ! "  to 
her,  for  of  course  they  're  nothing  but  other  girls, 
only  they  can't  wallow  round  among  wet  things 
in  rubber  boots  and  golf-skirts.  Who  would  be 
a  princess  if  she  could  be  the  daughter  of  an  ex- 
governor,  and  live  in  a  big,  dull  suburban  place, 
with  a  garden  seven  acres  across? 

I  went  out  into  the  garden,  I  say,  and  it 
stormed  like  the  Last  Day  (I  've  always  thought 
it  would  come  in  a  spring  freshet),  and  nobody 
saw  me,  for  the  servants  were  n't  about,  and  the 
secretary  was  reading  "  The  Life  of  Rufus 
Choate  "  to  Father  (Father  always  chooses  some 
of  those  contemporary  things)  ;  and  I  saw  the 
top  of  Mr.  Herwin's  head  as  I  crept  by  the 
library  windows  —  he  has  rather  a  nice  head,  if 
his  hair  were  n't  too  curly.  I  don't  like  curly 
men,  but  straight  ones,  like  Father.  I  stood  on 


12       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

tiptoe  and  peeked  in,  but  I  kept  a  good  way  off. 
Father  looked  very  handsome  and  peaceful  and 
happy  in  his  big  leather  chair  —  dear  Father ! 
The  secretary  was  reading  dutifully.  I  believe 
he  does  it  to  increase  his  income  while  he  is 
studying  law,  for  one  day  I  told  him  I  could  n't 
bear  lawyers,  and  he  cultivated  a  grieved  ex- 
pression, which  was  not  becoming,  and  I  told 
him  so.  I  never  have  been  able  to  get  on  with 
Mr.  Herwin.  There  's  an  Heir-to-the-Throne-in 
Disguise  manner  about  him  which,  in  my  opin- 
ion, the  circumstances  don't  justify.  I  feel  like 
a  panther  stroked  the  wrong  way  every  time  I 
see  him.  It  's  two  years,  now,  since  he  has  been 
around.  I  should  think  Father  would  get  tired 
to  death  of  him,  but  he  says  he  is  "a  brilliant 
young  man." 

I  wonder  what  he  'd  say  now*?  But  I  don't 
see  that  there  is  any  particular  need  of  his  know- 
ing; I  hate  to  worry  Father.  He  's  always  had 
the  most  absurd  confidence  in  me;  it's  perfectly 
irrational,  but  pretty  solid.  It  's  like  the  garden 
wall,  with  broken  bottles  on  top.  Who  knows 
what  I  should  have  done  without  it  ?  I  hope  I 
should  have  drawn  the  line  at  eloping  with  the 
coachman.  An  hour  ago  I  had  never  done  any- 
thing very  special  that  I  would  n't  be  willing  to 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       13 

have  my  father  know.  He  might  have  seen  any 
other  page  in  this  book  ;  I  'd  have  given  it  to  him 
if  he  asked  for  it.  I  wonder  if  this  is  the  way 
people  feel  when  they  have  done  some  dreadful 
thing  —  like  one  person  before  the  deed  and  an- 
other person  after,  and  not  able  to  convince  any- 
body else  that  it  is  n't  the  same  person  at  all.  I 
feel  very  strangely,  and  a  little  seasick,  as  if  I 
had  just  got  off  a  shipwreck. 

I  went  out  into  the  garden,  and  it  stormed  as 
if  the  skies  were  breaking  up  and  coming  to 
pieces  on  the  earth,  and  burying  it  under  —  you 
might  think  they  were  ashamed  to  see  it.  And 
the  wind  had  worked  its  temper  into  a  hurricane, 
and,  oh,  but  I  loved  it !  I  loved  it !  And  I  ran 
around  in  it,  and  I  stiffened  myself  and  fought 
against  it,  and  turned  and  drew  my  waterproof- 
hood  up,  and  fled  before  it;  and  I  don't  know 
which  I  liked  the  better,  the  battle  or  the  flight, 
for  I  love  everything  that  such  a  storm  as  that 
can  do  to  you.  My  waterproof  was  drenched 
before  I  got  past  the  smoke-bush  and  the  big 
spiraea  in  the  clump  by  the  tree-house,  and  my 
golf-skirt  was  n't  short  enough :  it  hit  the  borders, 
and  they  sopped  at  me  like  sponges  squeezed 
out.  And  there  was  a  hole  in  my  rubber  boots, 
and  I  could  feel  my  feet  squash  in  the  wet.  And 


14       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

the  wilder  it  was,  and  the  wetter,  the  happier  I 
felt.  And  I  began  to  sing,  for  nobody  could 
hear  me,  it  raved  so  out  there  among  the  trees. 
I  sang  opera  and  ballads  and  queer  things  —  all 
the  love-songs  I  ever  knew,  and  that  one  I  like 
about  the  skipper's  daughter  and  the  mate : 

"...  a  man  might  sail  to  Hell  in  your  companie." 
"Why  not  to  Heaven?"   quo'  she. 

And  pop !  in  the  middle  of  them,  something 
dashed  at  me,  and  it  was  Job.  I  thought  he  was 
shut  up  in  the  kitchen,  for  his  feet  were  wet,  and 
he  had  a  sore  throat,  and  I  'd  given  him  some 
hot  whisky;  and  I  scolded  him.  But  I  must  say 
I  appreciated  it  to  have  him  take  all  that  trouble 
to  find  me  —  there  's  no  flatterer  in  this  world 
like  your  own  dog.  So  I  picked  him  up,  and  put 
him  under  my  waterproof  in  one  of  the  dry  spots. 

"  Job,"  I  said,  "  you  know  better  than  this ! " 

Then  the  storm  lifted  up  its  voice,  and  spoke, 
quite  distinctly,  so  close  to  me  that  I  jumped. 

"And  so  do  you,"  it  said. 

And  there  stood  a  man. 

I  jumped,  but  I  did  not  scream  —  I  have  so 
much  consolation ;  but  I  have  n't  another  atom. 
He  was  very  wet,  but  not  so  wet  as  I,  and  he 
seemed  to  shed  the  storm  from  his  mackintosh  as 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE        15 

if  it  had  been  impudence.  He  looked  exceed- 
ingly tall  in  the  dark,  and  his  soft  felt  hat  was 
crushed  down  over  his  face  in  a  disgraceful  way. 
I  had  never  noticed  how  square  his  shoulders 
were. 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  how  did  you  get  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  followed  Job,  of  course,"  he  said. 

"  Could  you  follow  him  back  *?  "  I  suggested 
quite  pleasantly. 

"  Not  immediately  —  no." 

"  If  James  should  come  out  by  accident  — 
and  he  might,  you  know  —  he  would  shoot  you 
for  a  burglar,  as  surely  as  you  stand  here.  I 
don't  see,"  I  said  —  "  really,  Mr.  Herwin,  I  don't 
see  what  you  are  standing  here^r." 

"  I  will  explain  to  you  if  you  like,"  answered 
the  secretary.  He  spoke  so  steadily,  with  that 
Heir-to-the-Throne  manner  of  his,  that  I  found 
it  impossible  to  endure  it,  and  I  said : 

"  I  think  you  forget  what  is  due  to  me.  You 
had  better  go  back  and  read  '  Rufus  Choate '  to 
my  father." 

"  That  is  unworthy  of  you,"  he  answered  me 
very  quietly. 

Of  course  I  knew  it  was,  and  that  did  n't 
make  me  feel  any  better.  I  let  Job  down,  for 
he  squirmed  so  under  my  waterproof,  and  in- 
sisted on  kissing  Mr.  Herwin,  which  I  thought 


16       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

very  unpleasant  of  him;  so  he  ran  around  in 
his  bare  feet  and  sore  throat, —  I  mean  Job 
did, —  and  if  he  has  pneumonia  it  will  be  Mr. 
Herwin's  fault,  and  I  shall  never  forgive  him, 
never.  By  this  time  we  had  begun  to  walk  up 
and  down,  up  and  down,  for  it  was  pretty  cold 
standing  still  to  be  rained  on  so,  and  we  splashed 
across  the  garden,  righting  the  gale  and  running 
from  it, —  first  this,  then  that, —  we  two,  I  and  a 
man,  just  as  I  had  done  alone.  Job  splashed 
after  us,  in  his  insufferably  adorable,  patient  way, 
only  the  paths  were  so  narrow  that  Job  had  to 
walk  chiefly  in  the  box  border,  which  was  wetter 
than  anything. 

"  You  had  better  go  into  the  house,"  the  sec- 
retary began. 

"  I  'm  not  ready  to  go  into  the  house." 
"  You  are  getting  very  wet." 
"  That 's  what  I  came  out  for." 
"  Sometime  you  '11  do  this  once  too  often." 
"  I  have  done  it  once  too  often,  it  seems." 
"  I  meant,  you  risk  pneumonia.     It  is  intol- 
erable." 

"  It  is  Job  who  has  pneumonia,  not  I.  Pick 
him  up,  won't  you*?  Put  him  under  your 
mackintosh.  He  must  be  sopping.  Thank  you. 
Why,  thank  you  !  I  really  did  n't  think  — " 

"  Don't  you  really  think  that  I  would  do  any- 
thing whatever  that  you  asked  me  to  ?  " 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       17 

"  I  never  gave  the  subject  any  consideration, 
Mr.  Herwin." 

"  Then,"  he  said,  wheeling,  "  consider  it  now ! " 

A  cataract  of  rain  swept  down  from  the  trees 
over  our  heads,  and  drowned  the  words  off  his 
lips.  A  street  light  looked  over  the  wall.  I 
could  see  the  broken  bottles  glisten,  and  a  faint 
electric  pallor  flitted  over  that  part  of  the  garden 
by  the  tree-house  in  the  Porter  apple-tree.  Now, 
the  tree-house  has  a  little  thatched  roof,  and  it 
is  n't  quite  so  wet  in  there,  though  it  is  only  lat- 
tice at  the  sides,  and  sometimes  I  go  in  there 
'when  my  storms  are  particularly  wet  —  for  no- 
body would  think  what  a  difference  there  is  in 
storms;  some  of  them  are  quite  dry. 

"  Come  ! "  said  the  secretary.  And  he  took 
hold  of  my  hand  as  if  he  had  been  an  iron  man. 
Of  course  all  he  meant  was  to  put  me  into  the 
driest  wetness  there  was  till  the  torrent  held  up  a 
little ;  but  when  I  found  myself  alone  in  that 
tree-house  in  the  storm,  in  the  dark,  with  that 
man,  I  could  have  stabbed  him  with  something, 
if  I  had  had  anything  sharp  about  me.  But  I 
had  the  sense  left  not  to  say  so. 

"  I  've  always  wanted  a  name  for  this  tree- 
house,"  I  began ;  "  now  I  've  got  it." 

And  the  man  said  "  Ararat ! "  before  I  got  the 
word  out.  I  did  n't  suppose  he  was  that  kind  of 
man.  And  I  began  to  feel  quite  comfortable 


i8       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

and  to  enjoy  myself,  and  it  is  the  scandalous  and 
sacred  truth  that  I  began  not  to  want  to  go  in. 
And  at  that  point,  if  anybody  would  believe  it, 
the  secretary  took  it  upon  himself  to  make  me 
go  in. 

The  storm  had  gone  babbling  down, —  it  had 
got  past  the  raving  stage, —  and  he  put  out  his 
hand  to  help  me  down  the  tree-house  steps,  but 
he  did  n't  say  anything  at  all,  and  I  would  rather 
he  had  said  anything.  The  street  light  looked 
over  the  wall  at  us,  and  I  felt  as  if  it  were  a 
policeman,  while  I  climbed  down  from  Ararat. 
It  is  a  very  unbecoming  light.  I  hope  I  did  n't 
look  as  ghastly  as  he  did. 

So  I  said,  "  You  are  hoarse,  Mr.  Herwin. 
You  have  taken  cold  already,"  just  as  one  says, 
"  Won't  you  have  another  lump  of  sugar  ?  "  at 
an  afternoon  tea.  I  admit  that  my  remark  was 
the  more  exasperating,  seeing  that  the  man  was 
as  dumb  as  a  stuffed  eagle.  Then  he  opened  his 
mouth,  and  spake : 

"  You  will  come  in  now,  Miss  Marna,  won't 
you  ?  Your  father  might  be  worried." 

Now  he  spoke  in  quite  a  proper  tone,  gently 
and  deferentially,  as  a  man  should,  and  I  said 
yes,  I  would  go  in;  for  I  am  quite  willing  to 
please  people  when  they  speak  to  me  properly. 
So  we  came  in,  up  the  wet  paths,  between  the 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       19 

box  borders,  and  the  rain  had  stopped.  And 
Mr.  Herwin  did  not  talk  at  all  while  we  went 
past  the  spirsea  and  smoke-bushes,  but  Job  wrig- 
gled out  from  under  his  mackintosh  and  kissed 
him  in  the  most  unmitigated  way.  So  we  came 
on,  and  the  library  lights  fell  out  on  us  from  the 
window  where  I  had  peeked  in ;  and  Father  was 
asleep  in  his  big  chair  before  the  fire.  And  it 
came  over  me  like  that !  what  a  thing  I  'd  done  — 
prancing  about  in  a  dark  garden,  in  a  storm, 
alone  in  a  tree-house  with  the  secretary,  and  only 
Job  to  chaperon  me.  For  I  never  have  done 
such  a  thing  before  in  my  life.  I  never  did  any- 
thing I  should  n't  want  the  servants  to  know. 
And  I  wondered  what  Father  would  think.  So 
I  pulled  up  my  waterproof-hood  over  my  bare, 
wet  head,  to  hide  the  scorching  of  my  cheeks. 
But  the  man  had  the  manners  not  to  notice  this. 
He  did  something  much  worse,  however.  He 
began,  in  a  personally  conducted  tone  that  I 
object  to : 

"  Do  you  often  go  out  this  way  in  such 
storms  *? " 

"  Always." 

"  You  might  get  one  of  those  dangerous  colds 
people  are  having." 

"  I  could  n't  get  cold  that  way,  any  more  than 
an  English  sparrow." 


20       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  The  next  time  you  do  it,"  said  Mr.  Herwin, 
"  I  shall  go,  too.  In  fact,"  he  said,  "  every  time 
you  do  it,  I  shall  come  out  and  bring  you  in." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said ;  "  that  would  only  make 
it  the  more  interesting." 

The  secretary  looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of 
proud  motion  of  his  head,  for  he  saw  that  I 
taunted  him.  I  was  sorry  by  then,  and  I  would 
have  stopped  him,  but  it  was  too  late.  Before 
the  library  window,  in  the  face  of  the  porch  light, 
in  the  sight  of  my  father,  he  told  me  how  he  felt 
to  me. 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity !  "  I  said  — 

If  he  had  talked  that  way,  if  he  had  looked 
that  way,  if  I  had  known  he  felt  that  way,  out 
on  Ararat,  in  the  dark  and  wet,  I  should  have 
said  something  so  insolent  to  him  as  no  man 
ever  could  forgive  a  woman  for,  not  if  she  were 
sorry  till  she  died  for  having  said  it.  But  it  was 
not  storming  any  more.  And  it  seemed  different 
in  the  light  and  quiet,  and  with  Father  so  near. 
So  I  answered  as  I  did.  What  could  a  girl  do 
more  *?  I  'm  sure  I  was  quite  civil  to  the  secre- 
tary. I  can't  see  any  particular  reason  why  he 
should  get  up  such  an  expression  as  he  did. 
And  he  dropped  Job,  too,  and  Job  growled  at 
him  —  there  's  positively  no  limit  to  that  dog's 
intelligence. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       21 

So  I  said  good  night,  but  Mr.  Herwin  did  not 
answer  me.  He  lifted  his  hat,  and  stood  bare- 
headed, and  Job  and  I  came,  dripping,  into  the 
empty  hall. 

Now  we  are  quite  dry  and  happy.  Job  is 
done  up  in  his  gray  blanket  that  matches  his 
blue-skye  complexion,  bundled  before  the  fire. 
He  has  had  another  dose  of  whisky;  I  suspect 
he  has  got  a  little  too  much.  I  have  had  a  hot 
bath,  and  got  out  of  everything  and  into  some- 
thing, and  now  my  ruby  gown  —  especially  the 
velvet  part  of  it  —  seems  to  me  to  understand 
me  better  than  anything  in  the  world.  The  rain 
has  quite  stopped,  but  the  wind  sings  down  the 
chimney.  It  has  that  tune  in  its  head,  too,  and 
seems  to  be  humming  it : 

"A  man  might  sail  to  Hell  in  your  companie." 

But  it  never  gets  quite  through,  comes  to  a 
pause,  falls  short  of  heaven,  and  spoils  the  sense. 
Father  is  still  asleep  in  the  library.  Maggie 
has  come  and  gone  for  the  night.  The  house  is 
preposterously  still.  Mr.  Herwin  did  not  come 
in  again.  I  did  n't  know  but  he  would. 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  HERWIN  :  I  hope  I  was  not 
uncivil  to  you  the  other  evening.  I  was  really 


22       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

very  wet  and  cross.  I  did  not  mean  to  be  ugly, 
you  know,  but  I  'm  liable  to  break  out  that  way. 
It  's  a  kind  of  attack  I  have  at  times :  I  growl, 
like  Job.  I  hope  you  quite  understand  that  I 
esteem  you  very  highly,  and  that  I  am  always 
ready  to  be  your  friend,  although  I  cannot  be 
what  you  ask. 

"  Most  sincerely  yours, 

"  MARNA  TRENT." 

"  DEAR  MR.  HERWIN  :  I  fail  to  see  why  I 
should  be  snapped  up  in  this  way,  as  if  I  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  forcing  an  unwelcome  cor- 
respondence upon  you.  I  must  call  your  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  you  never  received  a  note 
from  me  before,  and  this,  I  beg  you  to  observe, 
is  the  last  with  which  you  will  be  annoyed.  I 
did  not  suppose  my  friendship  was  a  matter  of 
so  little  consequence  to  people.  For  my  own 
part,  I  think  friendship  is  much  nicer  than  other 
things.  According  to  my  experience,  that  is  the 
great  point  on  which  men  and  women  differ.  I 
am,  sir, 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  M.  TRENT." 

There  are  people  so  constituted  that  they  must 
express  themselves  at  any  proper  or  improper 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       23 

cost,  and  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  one  of  them.  I  admire 
the  large  reserve,  the  elemental  silence  that  one 
reads  about,  in  what  I  call  the  deaf-mute  heroes 
and  heroines ;  but  I  can't  imitate  it,  and  whether 
I  'm  above  or  beneath  it,  I  perceive  that  I  have  n't 
the  perception  to  know. 

There  are  four  ways  in  which  a  woman  can 
relieve  her  mind,  if  she  does  n't  lavish  her  heart: 
a  mother,  a  girl  friend,  a  lover,  or  a  book  will 
serve  her.  None  of  these  four  outlets  is  open  to 
me.  Ina !  Poor  Ina !  You  sweet,  dead,  only 
girl  I  ever  truly  cared  for !  Sometimes  I  won- 
der if  my  mother's  lovely  ghost  is  a  little  jealous  of 
you,  because  I  can't  remember  her  to  love  her 
as  I  loved  you.  Pray  tell  her,  Dear,  if  you  get  a 
chance  in  that  wide  world  of  yours  and  hers,  that 
I  have  never  thought  about  her  in  all  my  life  as 
much  as  I  have  this  spring.  She  seems  to  float 
before  me  and  about  me,  in  the  air,  wherever  I 
go  or  stir. 

A  good  many  people  have  told  me  that  I 
ought  to  be  a  writer,  which  only  shows  the  mas- 
sive ignorance  of  the  average  human  mind.  It 
sometimes  seems  to  me  as  if  I  must  carry  "  Re- 
jected, with  thanks  "  written  all  over  me,  I  have 
explored  that  subject  so  thoroughly.  I  am  told 
that  there  are  persons  who  have  got  manuscripts 
back  seventeen  times,  and  have  become  famous 


24       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

at  the  eighteenth  trial  trip ;  but  my  pluck  gave 
out  at  four  experiences  with  prose  and  two  with 
poetry,  and  I  am  done  with  a  literary  career  for 
this  world. 

There  is  a  fifth  method  of  self-preservation. 
You  can  become  your  own  author,  publisher, 
printer,  binder,  reader,  critic,  and  public;  and  a 
common  blank-book,  with  a  padlock  if  you 
choose,  is  competent  to  carry  your  soul  and  the 
secrets  thereof,  if  you  have  any,  or  to  convince 
you  that  you  have  some,  if  you  have  n't,  which 
is  substantially  the  same  thing.  I  call  mine 
"  The  Accepted  Manuscript." 

It  is  a  week  to-night  since  I  added  anything  to 
the  Accepted  Manuscript,  and  I  've  nothing  but 
copies  of  a  couple  of  humiliating  notes  to  fill  the 
gap.  Since  that  evening  when  I  went  out  into 
the  tree-house  in  the  storm,  the  secretary  has  not 
seen  fit  to  speak  to  me  at  all.  If  I  meet  him  at 
the  door,  he  lifts  his  hat,  and  if  I  go  into  the 
library  while  he  is  reading  to  Father,  he  lifts  his 
eyes,  and  their  expression  is  positively  exasper- 
ating. I  never  denied  that  Mr.  Herwin  was  a 
handsome  man,  and  melancholy  becomes  him, 
I  'm  bound  to  admit.  But  he  has  that  remote 
air,  as  if  I  had  been  caught  stabbing  him,  and 
nobody  knew  it  but  himself  and  me,  and  he 
would  n't  tell  of  me,  lest  I  be  held  up  to  human 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       25 

execration;  it  is  a  manner  quite  peculiar  to  Mr. 
Herwin.  I  don't  pretend  to  know  how  the  man 
does  it,  but  he  contrives  to  make  me  feel  as  if  I 
had  committed  high  treason,  as  if  I  had  got  en- 
tangled in  a  political  plot  against  my  own  nature. 

I  wish  Father  would  dismiss  him  and  get  an- 
other secretary. 

I  told  him  so  yesterday,  for  I  got  a  chance 
when  we  met  in  the  hall,  and  I  was  going  out  to 
drive  in  my  dove-colored  cloth,  trying  to  open 
my  chiffon  sunshade  that  stuck.  He  opened  it 
for  me  —  he  is  quite  a  gentleman,  even  when  I 
don't  choose  to  be  quite  a  lady,  and  I  will  own 
that  no  invariable  lady  ought  to  have  said  what 
I  said  to  the  secretary.  And  the  aggravating 
thing  about  it  was  that  the  secretary  laughed — he 
laughed  outright,  as  if  I  had  amused  him  more 
than  I  could  be  expected  to  understand.  He 
had  the  sunshade  in  his  hand,  and  he  held  it  over 
my  head,  and  he  said  :  "  What  pretty  nonsense  !  " 
But  he  looked  at  the  white  silk  and  chiffon,  with 
the  sun  shining  through  it.  I  was  n't  quite  clear 
what  he  meant.  I  'm  not  accustomed  to  have 
my  sunshades  called  nonsense,  or  my  language 
either.  I  never  heard  of  a  governor's  secretary 
before  who  was  impertinent  to  the  governor's 
daughter.  I  can't  see  that  Senator  Herwin's 
having  been  an  honest  person,  and  dying  poor, 


26       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

accounts  for  it.  I  have  been  told  that  Mrs.  Her- 
win  was  a  Southern  beauty,  the  extravagant 
kind,  and  that  she  led  her  husband  a  life.  I 
never  saw  her,  but  I  'm  sure  the  secretary  re- 
sembles his  mother.  He  looks  remarkably 
handsome  when  he  is  insolent. 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  HERWIN  :  I  have  spent 
twenty-four  hours  trying  to  decide  whether  to 
put  your  note  into  the  fire,  return  it  unanswered, 
or  show  it  to  my  father.  It  is  really  unpleasant 
to  receive  such  things.  You  put  one  in  such  a 
brutal  light !  As  if  it  were  a  girl's  fault  because 
a  man  liked  her.  I  don't  wish  to  be  ill-man- 
nered ;  I  'd  rather  be  barbarous :  but  you  compel 
me  to  say,  sir,  that  I  disapprove  of  your  persis- 
tence altogether.  Pray,  do  you  think  I  am 
the  kind  of  woman  who  can  be  browbeaten  into 
loving  people*?  Perhaps  you  take  me  for  the 
other  sort  that  waits  to  be  coaxed.  Learn  that  I 
am  neither. 

"  But  believe  me  to  be, 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  MARNA  TRENT. 

"P.S.  I  told  you  that  I  esteemed  you  and 
would  be  your  friend.  You  refused  my  friend- 
ship, and  now  you  wonder  that  I  decline  your 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       27 

love.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  man  ought  to  be 
satisfied  with  what  he  can  get,  and  not  make 
such  large  demands  that  nobody  can  possibly 
meet  them.  If  I  were  a  man,  and  loved  a  woman 
as  much  as  all  that,  I  would  —  well,  I  would  do 
quite  differently." 

"  DEAR  MR.  HERWIN  :  Certainly  not.  Why 
should  I  tell  you  what  I  would  do  if  I  were  a 
man  ?  I  cannot  see  that  the  circumstances  call 
for  it.  Very  truly, 

"  M.  T." 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR  :  Your  last  note  is  disagreeable 
to  me.  I  must  beg  you  to  forego  any  further  cor- 
respondence with  me  on  this  subject.  It  is  one 
on  which  it  is,  and  will  be  forever,  impossible  for 
us  to  agree.  M.  TRENT." 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  HERWIN  :  The  world  is  so 
full  of  women  !  I  read  the  other  day  that  there 
are  forty  millions  in  this  country.  I  think  if  you 
really  would  exert  yourself,  you  might  manage 
to  love  some  other  one  of  them.  And  then  you 
and  I  would  both  be  quite  happy.  You  are  not 
a  dull  man  (I  grant  you  that),  but  you  don't 
seem  to  understand  my  point  in  the  least.  It  is 
not  that  I  have  a  highly  developed  aversion  to 


28       CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

you.  It  is  that  I  do  not  wish  to  love  any  man  — 
not  any  man.  Pray  consider  this  as  final.  You 
can  be  so  agreeable  when  you  are  not  troublesome. 

"  MARNA  TRENT." 

"  DEAR  FRIEND  :  Now  you  are  quite  reason- 
able and  possible.  I  never  had  any  objections  to 
your  friendship;  it  was  you  who  objected  to 
mine.  Since  you  are  willing  to  meet  me  on  that 
basis  at  last,  I  find  you  interesting  and  valuable 
to  me ;  and  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  write  to  you 
in  this  way  once  in  a  while,  since  you  wish  it, 
though  I  prefer  to  mail  anything  I  may  feel  like 
saying  to  your  address.  I  was  sorry  the  day  I  left 
a  note  in  the  second  volume  of '  Rufus  Choate,' 
and  I  would  rather  you  did  not  send  things  by 
Maggie.  There  's  something  about  it  I  don't 
just  like.  I  never  allowed  my  heroine  to  do  it  in 
the  novel  I  wrote.  You  never  knew  I  wrote  a 
novel,  did  you?  I  never  told  anybody  before. 
It  is  because  we  are  friends  that  I  tell  you.  That 
is  my  idea  of  a  friend  —  somebody  you  can  say 
things  to.  I  am  mistaken  in  you  if  you  ask  me 
why  I  never  published  it.  That  's  one  thing  I 
like  about  you  —  you  are  not  stupid.  You  are 
one  of  the  people  who  understand ;  and  there  are 
not  enough  of  them  to  go  round,  you  know.  I 
never  knew  but  one  person  who  understood  — 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       29 

that  was  my  girl  friend,  Ina.  She  died.  Some- 
times I  think  she  died  because  she  understood 
too  much  —  everything  and  everybody.  People 
wasted  their  hearts  on  her ;  they  told  her  every- 
thing, and  went  bankrupt  in  confidence  as  soon 
as  they  came  near  her. 

"  Job  and  I  are  sitting  in  the  library,  and  Fa- 
ther has  gone  to  bed.  You  have  been  gone  half 
an  hour.  The  June-beetles  are  butting  their 
heads  against  the  screens  on  account  of  the 
lights,  and  Job  barks  and  bounces  at  them  every 
time  they  hit.  The  moths  are  out  there,  too, 
clinging  to  the  wire  netting,  and  flying  about 
stealthily  —  beautiful  little  beings,  some  of  them, 
transparent  as  spirits,  and  as  indifferent  to  fate  as 
men  and  women.  How  joyously  they  court 
death !  To  look  at  them  one  would  think  it 
quite  a  privilege. 

"  I  found  the  roses  when  you  left,  and  the 
poems,  out  in  the  hall  on  the  hat-tree.  You  are 
very  thoughtful  and  kind,  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  don't  mind  being  remembered.  I  have  never 
read  much  of  Edwin  Arnold.  I  shall  begin  with 
the  long  one  about  Radha  and  Krishna.  I  have 
turned  the  leaves  a  little.  I  must  say  I  don't 
think  Krishna  was  in  the  least  worthy  of  a  girl 
like  that.  Why  did  she  waste  herself  on  such  a 
fellow? 


30       CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

"So  you  liked  my  shade  hat  with  the  May- 
flowers ?  That  is  very  nice  of  you.  The  disad- 
vantage about  a  man  friend  is  that  his  education 
in  millinery  is  defective,  as  a  rule.  I  was  quite 
pleased  that  you  knew  it  was  a  May-flower. 
Father  asked  me  if  they  were  hollyhocks,  and  I 
told  him  no,  they  were  peonies. 

"  Faithfully  your  friend, 

"  MARNA  TRENT. 

"  P.S.  I  forgot  to  say  yes,  thank  you ;  I  will 
drive  with  you  on  Sunday,  if  you  wish." 

"  OH,  now  you  have  spoiled  it  all !  How  could 
you,  how  could  you  begin  all  over  again,  and  be 
disagreeable  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  would  have 
walked  in  the  garden  with  you,  by  moonlight, 
by  June  moonlight,  if  I  had  n't  trusted  you  ?  I 
don't  trust  people  over  again  when  they  shake 
my  trust,  either,  not  if  I  can  help  it.  That  is 
one  of  my  peculiarities.  I  have  attacks  of  lu- 
nacy,—  idiocy,  if  you  will, —  but  I  swing  back, 
and  come  to  my  senses,  and  look  at  things  with 
a  kind  of  composure  which  I  don't  wonder  that 
you  did  not  count  on.  I  don't  think  it  is  char- 
acteristic of  girls,  as  girls  go,  and  I  know  that  it 
is  not  considered  admirable  or  lovable  by  men. 
But  I  cannot  help  that,  and  I  don't  want  to  help 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       31 

it,  which  is  more.     I  prefer  to  swing  back  and 
keep  the  balance  of  power. 

"  Sir,  you  did  wrong  to  make  love  to  me  again, 
when  I  had  trusted  you  to  make  friendship.  No, 
I  shall  be  quite  unable  to  play  golf  with  you  on 
Saturday,  and  I  shall  not  be  at  home  on  Sunday 
afternoon.  I  am  going  out  to  the  cemetery  to  put 
some  flowers  on  Ina's  grave.  And  on  Monday 
Father  has  invited  an  old  friend  of  ours,  Dr. 
Robert  Hazelton,  to  dinner,  so  I  shall  be  preen- 
gaged  all  that  evening,  while  you  are  reading  to 
Father,  and  probably  much  later.  And  on  Tues- 
day I  am  going  to  a  dance  at  the  Curtises'. 
There  is  one  thing  I  am  convinced  of:  it  is  the 
greatest  mistake,  both  in  life  and  in  literature,  to 
suppose  that  love  is  the  difficult,  the  complicated 
thing.  It  is  not  love,  it  is  friendship,  which  is 
the  great  problem  of  civilized  society.  The 
other  is  quite  elemental  beside  it. 

"  M.  T." 

.  June  the  thirteenth. 

'  IF  I  loved  Mr.  Herwin,  of  course  I  would  not, 
in  fact  I  perceive  that  I  could  not,  make  him  so 
miserable.  I  think  he  is  the  handsomest  man, 
when  he  is  unhappy,  whom  I  ever  knew  in  my 
life.  I  like  to  be  quite  just  to  people.  He  has 
the  bewildering  beauty  of  a  pagan  god  (I  mean, 


32       CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

of  course,  one  of  the  good-looking  gods),  but  he 
has  the  exasperating  sensitiveness  of  a  modern 
man.  And  then,  he  has  the  terrible  persistence 
of  a  savage.  I  think  he  would  have  been  capa- 
ble of  dashing  whole  tribes  to  war  for  a  woman, 
and  carrying  her  off  on  his  shoulder,  bound  hand 
and  foot,  to  his  own  country,  and  whether  she 
loved  him  or  hated  him  would  n't  have  mattered 
so  much  —  he  would  have  got  the  woman.  It 
must  be  very  uncomfortable  to  be  born  with  such 
a  frightful  will. 

But  I  do  not  love  him.  I  have  told  him  that 
I  do  not  love  him.  I  have  told  him  till  I  should 
think  he  would  be  ashamed  to  hear  it  again. 
But  it  seems  only  to  make  him  worse  and  worse. 
He  has  a  kind  of  sublimated  insolence  such  as  I 
never  met  in  any  other  person,  and  when  I  scorn 
him  for  it,  I  find  that  I  admire  him  for  it  — 
which  is  despicable  in  me,  of  course,  and  I  know 
it  perfectly. 

He  had  the  arrogance  to  tell  me  to-day  in  so 
many  words  that  I  did  n't  understand  myself. 
He  said  —  but  I  will  not  write  what  he  said. 
The  Accepted  Manuscript  rejects  the  quotation. 

—  Oh,  if  I  could  talk  with  Ina !     My  poor  Ina ! 

—  If  I  could  only  put  my  head  on  my  mother's 
lap  a  minute !     It  seems  to  me  a  lonely  girl  is 
the  loneliest  being  in  all  the  world. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       33 

June  the  fourteenth. 

I  PUT  the  date  down.  I  put  it  down  precisely, 
and  drive  it  into  my  memory  like  the  nail  that 
Jael  drove  into  living  flesh  and  bone  and  brain. 
Now  that  I  have  done  it,  I  wonder  that  I  am  not 
as  dead  as  Sisera. 

I  have  told  a  person  to-night  —  I,  being  sane 
and  in  my  right  mind,  competent  to  sign  a  will, 
or  serve  as  a  witness,  or  be  treasurer  of  a  charity 
bazaar  —  I,  Marna  Trent,  have  told  a  person 
that  I  — 

How  long  ago  was  it?  Forty-five  minutes, 
by  my  watch.  We  were  in  the  drawing-room, 
for  Father  had  two  governors  and  three  senators 
to  dinner,  and  he  had  them  prisoners  in  the 
library,  and  the  secretary  was  let  off.  So  Job 
was  lying  on  the  flounce  of  my  white  swiss  with 
the  May-flowers  embroidered  on  it,  and  the  lights 
were  a  little  low  on  account  of  the  June-beetles, 
and  there  was  a  moon,  and  our  long  lace  curtain 
drifted  in  and  put,  and  blew  against  me,  and  I 
got  twisted  in  it  like  a  veil. 

And  the  secretary  said —  Then  I  said  — 
He  looked  like  that  savage  I  wrote  about — the 
one  that  flung  all  the  tribes  into  war.  If  he  had 
picked  me  up  and  jumped  over  the  garden  wall 
with  me,  I  should  n't  have  been  surprised  in  the 
least.  The  terrible  thing  is  that  I  should  n't 


34       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

have  much  cared  if  he  had.  For  the  man  did 
look  as  glorious  as  a  deity.  But  he  had  the 
divine  originality  to  tell  me  that  I  loved  him. 

And  the  veriest  squaw  in  the  latest  great  and 
gory  North  American  historical  novel  could  n't 
have  acted  worse  than  I  did. 

• 

For  I  said  I  did. 

As  soon  as  the  words  were  out  of  me,  I  could 
have  killed  myself.  And  when  I  saw  the  ex- 
pression on  his  face,  I  could  have  killed  him 
(that  is,  I  could  have  if,  say,  it  had  been  the 
fashion  of  my  tribe).  There  never  was  a  civil- 
ized woman  who  had  more  of  the  "  forest  pri- 
meval" in  her  than  I,  and  never  one  who  was 
less  suspected  of  it.  I  am  thought  to  be  quite 
a  proper  person,  like  other  well-bred  girls;  and 
the  curious  thing  is  that  the  savage  in  me  never 
breaks  out  in  improper  ways,  but  only  smolders, 
and  sharpens  knives,  and  thinks  things,  and 
hums  war-cries  under  its  breath  —  and  carries 
chiffon  sunshades,  and  wears  twelve-button 
gloves  and  satin  slippers  or  embroidered  May- 
flowers all  the  while.  And  nothing  could  prove 
it  so  well  as  the  fact  that  my  hand  and  my  brain 
are  writing  this  sentence,  putting  words  together 
decently  and  in  order,  while  I  have  fled  into  a 
pathless  place  and  hidden  from  myself.  If  he 
were  here  this  minute,  searching  my  soul  with 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       35 

his  splendid  eyes,  that  man  could  never  find  me. 
I  cannot  find  myself.  There  is  no  trail. 

All  I  know  is  that  I  got  straight  up,  and  went 
out  of  the  drawing-room,  and  left  him  alone. 
Any  school-girl  might  have  done  as  silly  a  thing. 
I  can't  say  that  I  take  any  particular  comfort  in 
the  recollection  of  the  fact.  But  I  am  convinced 
I  should  do  it  again  under  the  same  circum- 
stances. 

For  the  lace  curtain  blew  so,  and  fell  over  my 
head  and  face,  and  I  stood  up  to  push  it  away, 
and  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  his  arms  —  and  I 
dipped  under  them,  as  if  we  had  been  playing 
that  game  that  children  call  "  Open  the  gates  to 
let  the  king  come  in  " —  and  so  I  whirled  about, 
and  swung  out,  and  I  found  I  was  free,  and  I 
ran. 

He  has  n't  gone  yet.  It  is  perfectly  still  in 
the  drawing-room.  That  is  his  cigar  on  the 
piazza.  I  wonder  what  he  's  waiting  for? 

I  PUT  my  head  out  of  the  window  just  now  to 
ask  him,  for  it  is  very  tiresome  up  here,  and 
cigar-smoke  makes  me  nervous.  So  I  leaned 
out  a  little  way,  and  I  said : 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for,  Mr.  Herwin  ?  " 

"  You." 

"  You  '11  wait  a  good  while,  then." 


36       CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

"  Oh,  no,  I  sha'n't." 
"  Sir,  I  find  you  insufferable." 
"  Dear,  I  find  you  adorable." 
"Mr.  Herwin,  go  home.     I  am  not  coming 
down." 

"  Marna,  come  down.    I  am  not  going  home." 
"  Then  you  will  spend  the  night  on  the  piazza. 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  anyway  ?  " 
"  To  take  something." 

"  Call  James.     He  has  the  keys  of  the  wine- 
cellar." 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  insufferable  ?  " 
"  Well,  I  'd  rather  be  anything  than  adorable." 
"  But,  you  see,  you  can't  help  yourself." 
"  You  '11  find  I  can.  .  .  .  What  is  it  you  are 
waiting  to  take,  Mr.  Herwin  ?  " 
"  One  of  my  rights." 
"  You  have  no  rights,  sir." 
"  Oh,  yes,  I  have.  .  .  .  Marna,  come  down ! " 
"  I  might,  if  you  spoke  to  me  properly." 
"  Won't  you  come  down  —  please  ?  " 
"  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you.     But  I  do  not 
please."     And  then   I   shut  the  window  down. 
But  it  is  a  pretty  warm  night,  and  I  could  n't 
stand  it  as  long  as   I  thought  I  could.     So  I 
opened  the  window  after  a  while,  as  softly  as  a 
moonbeam  sliding  around  the  edges  of  a  leaf. 
I  did  n't  think  anybody  could  hear  me.     That 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       37 

man  has  the  ears  of  an  intelligent  Cherokee. 
But  I  shall  not  write  down  what  he  said.  The 
Accepted  Manuscript  declines  the  publication 
of  such  language.  So  I  answered,  for  I  had  to 
say  something : 

"  Where  is  Job,  Mr.  Herwin  <?  " 

"  On  my  lap." 

"  I  must  say  I  don't  think  much  of  his  taste. 
What  is  he  doing  *?  " 

"  Kissing  me." 

"  Oh,  good  gracious ! "  .  .  . 

So  I  shut  the  window  down  again,  and  I 
locked  it,  too.  Pretty  soon  Job  came  up  to  my 
door  and  cried,  and  I  let  him  in.  But  I  did  n't 
go  down.  And  I  did  n't  open  the  window. 
And  there  is  n't  air  enough  in  this  room  to  fill 
the  lungs  of  a  moth.  And  Job's  tongue  hangs 
out  of  his  mouth  like  a  long,  pink  ribbon,  he 
pants  "so.  It  is  ten  o'clock. 

IT  is  half-past  ten.  I  have  opened  the  window 
far  enough  to  tuck  my  silver  hand-glass  under 
— the  little  one.  By  the  pronounced  absence  of 
nicotine  from  the  atmosphere,  I  infer  that  the 
secretary  has  given  up  a  bad  argument  and  gone 
home. —  I  wonder,  by  the  way,  what  kind  of 
home  he  has?  It  never  occurred  to  me  to 
wonder,  before.  Some  sort  of  chambers,  I  sup- 


38       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

pose,  among  a  lot  of  bachelors.  I  should  think 
he  must  be  quite  comfortable  and  happy. 

The  governors  and  the  senators  have  gone, 
too.  I  have  kissed  Father  good  night,  and  sent 
Maggie  away,  for  I  could  n't  bear  the  sight  of 
her  to-night,  and  had  hard  work  not  to  tell  her 
so.  And  now  Job  and  I  are  locked  in.  Job  is 
asleep  in  his  basket  bed  by  the  window;  and 
when  the  June-beetles  hit  on  the  screen,  he 
growls  in  his  dreams,  for  there  never  was  any- 
body so  intelligent  as  Job ;  but  when  the  moths 
come,  they  are  so  beautiful  and  so  stealthy,  he 
does  not  growl.  As  I  write,  they  whirl  and  flit, 
and  retreat  and  advance,  and  yield  and  persist, 
like  half-embodied  souls  entangled  in  some 
eternal  game.  That  invisible  barrier  between 
them  and  delight  and  death  seems  to  tantalize 
them  beyond  endurance. 

It  is  eleven  o'clock. 

IT  is  half-past  eleven.  I  have  n't  begun  to  un- 
dress. I  think  there  never  was  anything  worse 
than  the  weather  to-night.  I  cannot  get  breath 
enough  to  think.  Job  squirms  about  in  his 
basket,  and  sits  up  and  begs  like  a  china  dog  in 
a  country  grocery.  I  think  he  wants  a  walk.  I 
believe  I  '11  slip  out  into  the  garden  with  him ; 
I  've  done  it  before,  as  late  as  this.  The  moon 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       39 

is  as  bright  as  an  army  with  banners.  There  is 
something  martial  and  terrible  about  it  —  it 
seems  to  move  right  over  one,  as  if  it  had  orders 
to  prepare  for  a  vast  battle  of  the  elements.  I 
believe  there  '11  be  a  tremendous  easterly  storm 
to-morrow.  I  always  know  before  the  weather 
bureau  does  when  an  easterly  is  on  the  way. 
Perhaps  I  may  come  to  my  senses  out  in  the 
garden. 

IT  is  twelve  o'clock  —  it  is,  to  be  precise,  half- 
past  twelve  o'clock. 

I  did  come  to  my  senses  out  in  the  garden  — 
or  I  lost  them  forever,  and  the  terrible  thing  is 
that  I  cannot  tell  which. 

For  Job  and  I  went  out  into  the  garden,  and 
the  world  was  as  white  as  death,  and  as  warm  as 
life,  and  we  plunged  into  the  night  as  if  we 
plunged  into  a  bath  of  warmth  and  whiteness  — 
and  I  ran  faster  than  Job.  The  yellow  June 
lilies  are  out,  and  the  purple  fleurs-de-lis;  the 
white  climber  is  in  blossom  on  the  tree-house, 
and  the  other  roses  —  oh,  the  roses  !  There  was 
such  a  scent  of  everything  in  one  —  a  lily-honey- 
iris-rose  perfume  —  that  I  felt  drowned  in  it,  as 
if  I  had  been  one  flower  trying  to  become  an- 
other, or  doomed  to  become  others  still.  It  was 
as  quiet  as  paradise.  I  ran  up  the  steps  to 


40       CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

Ararat,  and  Job  stayed  below  to  paw  a  toad. 
The  little  white  rose  followed  me  all  over  the 
lattice,  and  seemed  to  creep  after  me;  it  has  a 
golden  heart,  and  such  a  scent  as  I  cannot  de- 
scribe ;  it  is  the  kind  of  sweetness  that  makes 
you  not  want  to  talk  about  it.  The  electric 
light  in  the  street  was  out,  for  this  suburb,  being 
of  an  economical  turn  of  mind,  never  competes 
with  the  moon.  There  was  moon  enough  — 
oh,  there  was  enough,  I  think,  for  the  whole 
world !  For,  when  that  happened  which  did 
happen,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  whole  world 
were  looking  at  me. 

As  I  sat,  quite  by  myself,  in  Ararat,  behind 
the  vines,  all  flecked  with  leaf-shadows  and 
flower-shadows  (and  thinking  how  pretty  shadows 
are  on  white  dresses  and  on  bare  hands  and  a 
little  bit  of  your  arm),  I  heard  Job's  tail  hit  the 
foot  of  the  tree-house  steps.  And  as  I  looked, 
it  began  to  wag  in  the  most  unpardonable  man- 
ner. Then  I  knew  what  had  happened,  and  my 
heart  leaped  in  my  body  like  a  live  creature  that 
had  been  caught  in  a  trap.  My  lips  moved,  but 
they  were  as  dry  as  a  dead,  red  maple-leaf;  my 
words  refused  me,  and  there  could  n't  have  been 
a  rose  in  the  garden  as  red  as  my  cheeks,  for  I 
felt  as  if  I  could  have  died  of  fear  and  joy,  and 
of  shame  because  I  felt  joy.  There  is  something 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       41 

terrible  about  joy.  It  does  n't  seem  to  mind 
any  of  the  other  emotions. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened,"  he  said  quite  gently. 
"  It  is  only  I." 

//  was  only  he.  It  was  only  the  only  person 
in  the  world  who  could  have  frightened  me,  out 
there  in  Ararat  in  my  father's  garden,  at  more 
than  half-past  eleven  by  the  June  moon. 

He  came  up  the  tree-house  steps,  tramping 
steadily,  and  he  made  no  more  apology  for  his 
behavior  than  the  moon  did,  or  the  west  wind, 
which,  by  now,  had  begun  to  stir  and  rise. 

"  You  intrude,  Mr.  Herwin,"  I  said.  "  Since 
you  do,  I  must  go  into  the  house." 

"  Presently,"  he  said  serenely.  But  I  looked 
up  into  his  eyes,  and  I  saw  that  he  was  not 
serene.  And  he  stood  between  me  and  the  tree- 
house  steps.  And  I  said  : 

"  Let  me  pass,  sir ! " 

"  In  a  minute,  Marna." 

"  Let  me  pass  this  minute  ! " 

"  My  beautiful !  " 

"You  presume,  Mr.  Herwin,  and  take  a 
liberty." 

"  Perhaps  I  do.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Go  into 
the  house,  if  you  will." 

He  stepped  back.  I  moved  to  go  down  the 
tree-house  steps,  but  I  tripped  over  something — 


42       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

it  was  Job ;  for  Job  had  forgotten  his  toad,  and 
he  had  come  up  into  Ararat,  wiggling  and  wag- 
gling at  the  secretary,  and  he  took  my  dress  in 
his  teeth  to  shake  it  the  way  he  does,  and  that 
tripped  me,  and  I  fell. 

I  should  have  gone  clear  down  the  tree-house 
steps,  the  whole  length,  but  he  caught  me.  And 
when  he  had  caught  me  he  did  not  let  me  go. 

"  I  will  not  take  it,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth. 
And  he  went  as  white  as  the  moon.  "  You  shall 
give  it  to  me." 

"  I  will  never  give  it  to  you  !  "  I  cried. 

"  What  if  I  held  you  here  until  you  did  *?  " 

"  I  should  hate  and  abhor  you." 

"  You  could  n't  hate  me." 

"  When  you  speak  like  that,  I  despise  you." 

"  No,  you  don't ;  you  love  me." 

"  I  wish  you  a  very  good  evening,  Mr. 
Herwin." 

"  I  wish  you  to  be  my  wife,  Miss  Trent." 

"  I  must  decline  the  honor,  sir." 

"But  I  decline  the  declination.  .  .  .  You 
love  me ! " 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  proper  —  keeping  a  girl  out 
here  at  midnight,  this  way*?" 

"  We  will  make  it  proper.  We  will  tell  the 
whole  world  to-morrow  morning.  I  will  wake 
your  father  up  and  tell  him  now,  if  you  say  so." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       43 

"  I  don't  say  anything  —  not  anything,  you 
understand." 

"You  have  said  everything,  Dear,"  he  answered 
in  another  tone,  and  he  spoke  so  reverently  and 
so  solemnly  that  my  spirit  died  within  me,  and  I 
felt,  suddenly  and  strangely,  less  like  a  girl  in 
love  than  like  a  girl  at  prayer.  And  the  tears 
came  to  me,  I  don't  know  why,  from  some  depth 
in  me  that  I  had  never  known  or  felt  in  all  my 
life ;  and  they  began  to  roll  down  my  cheeks, 
and  I  trembled,  for  I  was  more  afraid  of  my  own 
tears  than  I  was  of  him,  or  of  his  love. 

"  God  forgive  me  !  "  he  said.  "  What  have  I 
done "?  I  have  made  you  cry !  "  And  he  took 
my  face  between  his  hands. 

Oh,  Mother,  Mother!  My  dead  Mother! 
The  man  took  my  face  between  his  hands,  and 
he  kissed  me  on  the  lips. —  Mother,  Mother, 
Mother  I 

IT  is  two  o'clock.  I  cannot  sleep.  I  am  sitting 
up  straight  here  in  my  night-dress.  I  think  I 
shall  never  sleep  again.  The  night  grows  cruelly 
bright  and  brighter  all  the  time.  I  wish  the 
moon  could  be  put  out.  I  feel  as  if  my  eyelids 
had  been  burned  off,  as  if  my  eyes  would  never 
feel  any  softness  or  darkness  again.  I  wonder  if 
there  are  people  in  the  world  who  would  not 


44       CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

feel  as  unhappy  if  they  had  committed  a  great 
sin  as  I  feel  about  that  kiss  *? 

The  music  over  at  the  Curtises'  has  but  just 
stopped.  Somebody  has  been  serenading  one  of 
the  Curtis  girls  —  a  college  crowd,  I  think. 
They  sang  a  thing  I  do  not  know.  But  the 
German  words  came  over  quite  distinctly: 

Er  hat  mich  gekiisst. 

My  cheeks  blaze  till  they  smart  and  ache.  I 
feel  as  if  the  whole  world  knew.  I  feel  as  if  the 
climbing  rose  told,  and  the  iris,  the  June  lilies, 
and  even  the  poor  gray  toad  that  Job  tormented ; 
as  if  every  sweet,  loving,  gracious  thing  and  every 
little,  common,  unpopular  thing  in  nature  con- 
spired against  me ;  and  as  if  the  moon  sided  with 
them,  and  the  warm  west  wind  drove  them  on. 

And  the  moths  —  now  I  have  it !  It  was  the 
moths.  They  who  delight  in  dying,  and  die  of 
delight  —  they  would  be  the  first  to  tell  of  me. 
They  would  see  me  led  to  delight  and  death, 
and  not  be  sorry  for  me  at  all.  Nobody  would 
be  sorry  for  me. 

Er  hat  mich  gekiisst. 

And  yet  I  do  not  wish  or  mean  to  marry  this 
man  —  nor  any  man;  no,  not  any  man.  That 
is  my  nature. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       45 

Why  has  not  my  nature  as  much  claim  to 
recognition  as  his  nature  ?  I  can't  see  that  he 
has  a  monopoly  in  natures.  In  that  Indian  poem 
which  he  sent  me  were  some  words.  They  keep 
close  behind  my  thoughts,  as  close  as  Job  keeps 
to  my  shadow: 

Thy  heart  has  entered  :  let  thy  feet  go  too. 
Give  him  the  drink  of  amrit  from  thy  lips. 

But  Radha  was  quite  a  dignified  person.  No- 
body took  any  liberties  with  her.  Krishna  was 
bad  enough,  but  he  did  not  steal.  That  a  man 
should  kiss  you  when  you  do  not  mean  to  be 
his  wife  —  it  is  a  dreadful  thing.  I  can't  think 
of  anything  worse  that  could  happen  to  a  girl. 
He  has  made  me  so  unhappy  that  I  never  want 
to  see  his  face  again. 

I  think  I  really  shall  ask  Father  to  dismiss  the 
secretary. 


II 


June  the  twenty-fifth. 

WHERE  shall  I  find  a  name  for  the  thing 
which  has  befallen  me  ?  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  there  were  no  name  for  it  in  earth  or  heaven. 
If  I  call  it  joy,  I  shrink  away  from  the  word ; 
and  if  I  call  it  altogether  fear,  I  know  that  I  do 
it  a  wrong :  but  if  I  call  it  hope,  I  find  that  my 
fear  pulls  my  hope  down,  as  the  drowning  pulls 
down  his  rescuer. 

Yet  I  cannot  deny  that  I  am  happy.  I  would 
if  I  could,  for  I  certainly  am  not  comfortable. 
Write  it  down,  Marna  Trent — fling  it  into  black 
and  white,  and  let  it  stare  you  out  of  your  sane 
senses.  See  !  How  do  you  like  the  looks  of  it? 

You  have  promised  a  man  that  you  would  be 
his  wife.  Ton  have  promised  —  a  —  MAN  —  that 
you  would  be  his  wife. 

I  have  been  trying  to  recall  the  exact  lan- 
guage :  whether  I  did  n't  say  that  I  would  be 
his  employer's  daughter,  or  possibly  his  consid- 
erate friend,  or  even  his  dearest  enemy,  or  almost 

46 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      47 

anything  that  might  be  mentioned,  except  that 
one  dreadful  thing.  I  am  afraid  I  did  say 
"  wife."  No ;  now  I  think  of  it,  it  was  he  who 
said  that.  All  I  said  was  "  Yes,"  and,  on  the 
whole,  sometime,  perhaps,  I  would;  and  all  I 
did  was  not  to  turn  him  out  of  the  room  after  I 
had  said  it.  That  is  n't  strictly  true,  either.  It 
was  n't  quite  all  I  did.  As  for  him,  he  did  so 
many  things  that  I  don't  dare  to  think  of  them, 
because,  if  I  do,  the  Wilderness  Girl  in  me 
comes  up,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  could  call  out  my 
whole  tribe  and  have  them  kill  him  on  the  spot 
—  I  do  indeed. 

But  the  perfectly  ridiculous  thing  about  that 
is  that  if  I  saw  so  much  as  a  woodpecker  nip- 
ping at  him,  I  should  kill  the  woodpecker !  And 
if  I  saw  anybody  really  trying  to  do  him  any 
harm,  all  the  tomahawks  of  colonial  history 
would  have  to  hit  me  first.  I  think  I  should 
feel  a  positive  ecstasy  in  a  tomahawk  that  was 
meant  for  him. 

This  seems  to  me  a  pitiable  state  of  mind  for 
a  girl  to  be  in.  I  don't  respect  it;  really,  I 
don't.  There  's  a  part  of  me  that  stands  off  and 
looks  on  at  myself,  and  keeps  quite  collected 
and  sane, and  says,  "What  a  lunatic  that  girl  is!" 
But  the  Wilderness  Girl  does  n't  mind  the  other 
girl  a  bit,  and  this  is  what  mortifies  me  so. 


48      CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

I  don't  think  I  will  write  any  more  to-night. 
I  'm  ashamed  to.  I  don't  know  what  I  might 
say.  I  'm  afraid  the  Accepted  Manuscript  would 
reject  me  altogether  if  I  should  once  let  myself 
go  and  offer  it  any  such  copy  as  comes  pouring 
upon  this  paper,  hot  and  fast,  like  the  drops  of 
my  heart's  blood.  I  '11  shut  the  book  and  go  to 
bed. 

An  hour  later. 

I  CAN'T  do  it.  I  've  got  as  far  as  my  hair  and 
my  slippers  —  and  my  white  gown  (for  it  is  such 
a  warm  night,  and  no  moon,  just  that  sultry 
darkness  which  smothers  the  breath  out  of  you, 
soul  and  body) — the  gown  with  elbow-sleeves 
and  the  Valenciennes  yoke.  It  is  rather  pretty. 
Nobody  ever  sees  me  in  it  but  Maggie ;  only 
once  in  a  while  when  Father  rings,  and  I  run 
down  in  a  hurry.  Maggie  thinks  it  is  becoming ; 
but  Father  asked  me  if  I  did  n't  take  cold  in  it. 
I  've  always  been  fond  of  this  gown.  Some- 
times I  wish  the  sleeves  were  longer. 

Now  I  think  of  it,  I  must  have  been  out  of  my 
right  mind.  I  shall  have  to  write  and  tell  him 
so.  I  wonder  if  it  was  n't  a  sunstroke*?  I  was 
out  at  noon,  in  the  garden,  rather  long  to-day. 
They  say  people  do  such  queer  things  after  sun- 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      49 

strokes.  Job  had  something  like  a  sunstroke, 
I  'm  convinced.  It  was  trying  to  find  Job  that 
I  got  into  the  sun.  He  was  up  in  the  tree-house, 
and  it  was  hotter  than  anything;  and  he  only 
shook  hands,  he  was  so  weak,  and  did  n't  kiss 
me  at  all. 

I  DON'T  see,  in  the  least,  why  Mr.  Herwin  should 
have  felt  called  upon  to  make  up  for  Job's 
omission. 

I  HAD  to  give  him  sherbet,  and  put  cracked  ice 
on  the  back  of  his  neck  —  I  mean  Job's  neck. 
Job  is  much  better.  He  is  snoring  in  his  basket, 
with  his  four  feet  up  in  the  air.  I  shingled  him 
to-day.  He  has  kept  his  winter  flannels  on  too 
long,  the  poor  dear  thing.  I  'm  afraid  I  have 
neglected  Job  lately.  I  mean  to  devote  myself 
to  him  exclusively  hereafter. 

MR.  HERWIN'S  hair  does  curl  beautifully,  and  it 
is  so  much  softer  than  one  would  have  thought. 


hours  later. 

IT  is  well  on  toward  morning.  I  wish  I  had 
been  born  one  of  those  people  who  sleep  when 
things  happen.  I  am  writing  on  and  on,  in  this 
perfectly  preposterous  way.  I  am  likely  to 


50      CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

drown  myself  in  seaweed  and  shells,  because  I 
am  afraid  to  wade  in  and  dare  the  ocean. 

Plunge,  Mama  Trent !  Admit  it  once  for  all. 
You  love  this  man  so  much  —  so  much  —  there 
is  nothing  you  will  not  think,  or  feel,  or  do,  or 
be,  for  his  dear  sake.  You  will  even  be  his  wife, 
because  he  wishes  it.  And  what  is  there  more 
than  that  a  girl  could  do  for  a  man's  sake  ? 

WHY  do  you  have  to  write  your  soul,  I  wonder  ? 
Other  people  don't.  They  talk  it,  or  they  keep 
it  to  themselves  and  don't  express  it  at  all. 
Sometimes  I  suspect  that  is  the  best  thing  to  do 
with  souls  —  lock  them  up.  But  I  have  n't  got 
that  kind.  Mine  is  a  jack-in-the-box,  and  is 
always  pushing  the  lid  and  jumping  up.  Well, 
if  you  've  got  to  write,  stop  writing  to  yourself, 
and  write  to  him,  then.  Sit  down  here,  in  your 
pretty  lace  gown,  alone  in  your  own  room,  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  tell  this  man 
whose  wife  you  have  promised  to  be  how  you 
feel  about  him  now,  at  the  very  beginning  of 
everything.  I  don't  believe  you  could  do  a  bet- 
ter thing.  Come  to  think  of  it,  he  might  rather 
like  it,  on  the  whole. 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  HERWIN  :  It  occurs  to  me 
that  a  note  from  me,  under  the  circumstances, 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       51 

might  be  agreeable  to  you.  But  now  that  I  am 
trying  to  write  it,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  be- 
gun it  just  right.  I  will  send  this  as  it  stands, 
and  try  again.  Faithfully  yours, 

"MARNA  TRENT." 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  am  not  sleeping  very 
well  to-night, —  I  've  been  anxious  about  Job,  on 
account  of  his  sunstroke, —  and  so  I  thought  I 
would  write  a  line  to  you,  and  put  it  in  the  first 
volume  of '  Rufus  Choate '  to-morrow.  It  is  very 
strange,  but  now  I  feel  quite  willing  to  put  notes 
in  *  Rufus  Choate,'  and  I  sha'n't  be  troubled  if 
you  send  things  by  Maggie. 

"Your  affectionate 

"MARNA  TRENT." 

"  DEAR,  what  have  we  done  ?  Oh,  what  have 
we  done  ?  Why  did  you  make  me  love  you  ? 
I  was  quite  happy  before.  All  my  days  rose 
and  set  in  peaceful  easts  and  wests  —  gray  and 
rose  and  sunlight  colors.  Now  I  am  caught  up 
into  a  stormy  sky,  dashed  with  scarlet  and  purple 
and  fire,  and  swept  along, —  I  don't  know  where, 
I  don't  know  why, —  carried  away  from  myself, 
as  I  used  to  dream  that  I  should  be  if  I  let  my- 
self out  of  the  window,  and  did  not  fall,  but 
were  taken  up  by  the  wind,  and  borne  to  the 


52       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

tops  of  the  elms  —  never  any  higher,  so  as  to  be 
dangerous,  but  whirled  along  over  the  heads  of 
people,  out  of  everybody's  reach. 

"  Now  we  are  swept  along  together,  you  and 
I,  and  I  am  out  of  everybody's  reach  but  yours. 
And  now  that  I  and  my  dream  are  one,  I  am 
afraid  of  my  dream;  and  I  am  afraid  of  you. 
Why  did  you  love  me  *?  Why  did  you  make 
me,  why  did  you  let  me,  love  you  ?  For  you 
did  — •  you  know  you  did :  you  made  me  do  it. 
I  did  n't  want  to  love  you.  Have  n't  I  entreated 
you,  by  every  look  and  word  and  tone  these  ten 
weeks  past,  not  to  make  me  love  you  *?  My 
heart  has  been  a  beggar  at  your  feet  all  the  spring 
and  summer,  praying  to  you  not  to  let  me  love 
you.  You  know  it  has.  You  are  not  a  stupid 
man.  You  knew  I  did  n't  mean  to  love  you, 
Dana  Herwin;  or,  if  you  did  n't  know  it,  then  I 
take  it  back,  and  you  are  a  stupid  man,  and  you 
deserve  to  be  told  so.  Of  course  you  know  I 
had  to  be  decent  and  friendly,  and  I  did  n't  keep 
out  of  your  way  altogether.  How  could  I?  If 
I  had  n't  been  friendly  with  you,  that  would 
have  been  telling.  Nothing  gives  away  the 
secret  of  a  girl's  heart  quicker  than  that  —  not  to 
dare  to  be  friends  with  a  man.  She  might  as 
well  propose  to  him  and  done  with  it,  I  think. 
Of  course  I  had  to  treat  you  prettily. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       53 

"  But  I  did  n't  want  to  love  you  this  way — 
not  this  way.  I  did  n't  want  to  marry  you.  I 
never  thought  of  such  a  dreadful  thing !  And  I 
wish  you  to  understand,  sir,  that  it  is  very  dis- 
agreeable to  me  to  think  of  it  now.  I  will  be 
honest  with  you  at  the  beginning  of  everything. 
If  a  woman  is  honest  with  herself  and  her  love, 
she  must  be  honest  with  the  man  she  loves. 
And  I  tell  you,  sir, —  for  it  is  the  truth,  and  I  've 
got  to  tell  you, —  if  I  could  unlove  you  I  would 
do  it  this  minute,  and  stand  by  the  consequences. 
I  believe  I  '11  try.  If  you  don't  have  any  more 
notes  from  me,  you  will  know  I  have  succeeded. 
"  Yours,  M.  T." 


The  light  fell,  and  the  dusk  rose,  and  they  twain,  the  escaped 
and  the  pursuing,  the  fleeing  and  the  seeking,  were  alone  on 
that  part  of  the  river.  For  it  is  not  a  frequented  part  of  the 
river.  And  the  princess  hid  from  him. 


"  I  AM  sorry  if  it  does  n't  please  you  that  I  send 
notes  without  beginnings.  I  've  tried  a  good 
many  different  ones,  but  they  do  not  suit  me. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  I  don't  quite  see  ends. 
How  solemn  a  thing  is  a  beginning  without  an 
end !  A  love  that  is  never  to  have  an  end 
seems  to  me  more  sacred  to  think  of  than  a  life 
that  is  to  have  no  end;  because  you  can  live 


54       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

without  loving,  but  you  can't  love  without  living, 
and  the  moment  life  and  love  become  one  — 
that  is  a  terrible  moment.  I  wrote  long  ago,  in 
something  I  have  that  nobody  sees,  that  joy  is 
terrible.  But  you  don't  seem  to  think  so,  and 
that  is  what  perplexes  me. 

"  I  remember  a  book  my  mother  gave  me 
when  I  was  a  little  girl  —  I  keep  it  now  with 
my  Bible.  It  is  called  'A  Story  Without  an 
End,'  and  is  one  of  those  old-time  allegories 
about  the  human  soul.  A  Child  who  was  always 
spelled  with  a  big  C  lived  in  a  hut  in  a  forest, 
alone  with  the  birds  and  the  butterflies,  the 
flowers  and  the  animals,  and  a  little  looking- 
glass  covered  with  cobwebs  in  which  he  tried  to 
see  himself.  And  the  bluebells  were  taller  than 
the  Child,  and  delighted  me.  There  was  a 
chapter  on  Faith,  and  one  on  Aspiration,  and 
one  on  Love ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  I  understood 
the  chapter  stories  about  Faith,  and  even  about 
Aspiration,  but  the  one  about  Love  I  could  not 
understand,  and  it  troubled  me.  I  seemed  to 
sit  down  before  it  as  the  Child  sat  under  the 
bluebells  that  were  taller  than  himself — with 
his  chin  in  his  hands — this  way.  I  '11  show 
you  next  time  we  are  in  the  drawing-room  to- 
gether. That  is,  if  you  won't  disturb  me ;  for 
I  tell  you  at  the  beginning,  I  can't  bear  to  have 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE       55 

my  chin  touched.  If  you  ever  do  that,  I  shall 
know  that  you  wish  to  quarrel  with  me  badly. 
You  are  quite  mistaken  that  I  have  a  dimple 
there.  Nobody  else  ever  told  me  so.  My 
dimple  is  in  my  left  cheek.  I  consider  it  a  kind 
of  embezzlement  to  create  dimples  where  they 
don't  exist,  and  much  worse  to  make  them  an 
excuse  for  doing  things. 

"  Sir,  you  kissed  my  chin  yesterday,  when  I 
had  asked  you  not  to.  This  is  the  reason  I  am 
writing  you  without  beginnings.  The  blue- 
bells are  taller  than  I  to-day,  and  you  must 
leave  me  alone  with  them  in  my  forest.  I  shall 
stay  there  till  you  have  learned  not  to  — 
Why  do  you  do  things  I  ask  you  not  to  *?  I 
don't  love  you  for  it — truly  I  don't.  I  suppose 
some  women  would.  But  when  a  man  chooses 
a  Wilderness  Girl,  he  must  not  expect  her  to 
be  precisely  like  all  the  other  girls,  and,  in  my 
opinion,  he  should  treat  her  accordingly.  No, 
I  am  not  ready  yet  to  wear  rings  for  people. 
When  I  am,  I  '11  let  you  know.  Nor  I  don't 
care  what  stone  it  is,  as  long  as  it  is  n't  a  dia- 
mond. I  don't  know  how  much  I  love  you, — 
I  admit  that, — and  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  you  don't  know,  either.  Perhaps  it  is  not 
so  very  much;  who  knows?  Perhaps  a  little 
more  than  that — I  can't  say.  But  I  do  know 


56       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

that  I  could  not  vulgarize  my  love  for  you — 
whether  it  be  little,  or  much,  or  less — by  mak- 
ing myself  prisoner  to  a  commonplace  solitaire. 

"Why  need  I  be  a  prisoner  at  all?     I  'm  sure 
I  can  love  you  quite  as  much  without  rings. 
"  Lovingly  and  loyally, 
"  Yours, 

"MARNA." 

"  I  THINK,  on  the  whole,  if  I  'd  got  to  wear 
any,  I  'd  like  it  to  be  a  ruby;  a  small  ruby, 
deep  at  the  heart,  and  fed  by  an  aorta  of  blazing 
color  that  you  must  take  a  little  on  trust,  but 
get  glimpses  of  once  in  a  while,  if  you  know 
how  to  treat  the  ruby  and  handle  it  just  right. 
Of  course  it  must  be  a  carmine  ruby  —  not  one 
of  those  magenta  things.  I  am  not  at  all  pre- 
pared for  any  kind  of  rubies  yet.  Really,  you 
must  not  bother  me  and  hurry  me  so.  It  makes 
me  a  little  fretful.  I  shall  run  off  into  my  forest 
if  I  am  hurried,  and  then  no  man  can  find  me  — 
not  even  you,  sir. 

"This  evening  you  annoyed  me.  I  think 
once  when  you  come,  and  once  when  you  go,  is 
enough.  I  do,  indeed." 

"DEAR,  you  were  very  considerate  and  gentle 
with  me  to-day,  and  I  love  you.  I  do  love  you. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       57 

If  you  will  like  it,  if  it  will  make  you  happy,  I 
will  wear  your  ring.  You  may  put  it  on  to- 
morrow evening.  For  truly  I  do  wish  to  make 
you  happy.  MARNA. 

"  P.S.  Be  patient  with  me.  I  know  I  make 
you  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  but  indeed,  indeed, 
I  cannot  help  it.  It  is  my  nature,  I  'm  afraid. 
But  what  is  nature  ?  It  seems  to  me  a  trackless 
place ;  a  great  tropical  jungle  where  it  is  easy  to 
get  lost  on  foot,  or  a  vast  space  of  ether  where 
it  is  possible  to  get  lost  on  wings.  After  all,  I 
am  rather  young,  though  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  were, 
—  no  motherless  girl  does,  I  think, —  and  I  don't 
always  know  the  difference  between  my  feet  and 
my  wings.  All  I  know  is  that  I  love  you.  And 
a  ruby  is  love  incarnate.  Bind  me  to  you  with 
your  ruby,  my  dear  Love !  Then  I  cannot  get 
away  if  I  would,  and  perhaps  —  who  knows  ?  — 
perhaps  I  would  not  if  I  could,  for  I  am,  and 
God  knows  I  want  to  be, 

"  Your  MARNA." 

"  MOTHER  ?  My  dear  dead  Mother  out  some- 
where in  the  wide  summer  night,  I  write  a  note 
to  you.  Did  any  girl  ever  write  a  letter  to  her 
dead  mother  before?  Oh,  I  don't  know,  but, 
Mother,  I  must!  I  am  such  a  lonely  girl !  I 


58       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

have  nobody  to  speak  to  —  I  cannot  talk  to  the 
girls  I  know,  and  there  is  n't  any  older  woman 
who  has  ever  shown  a  mother-heart  to  me  that  I 
could  care  for,  to  turn  to  now.  Mother,  don't 
forget  me  in  your  grand  heaven !  I  never  needed 
you  so  much  when  I  was  a  little  crying  baby  on 
your  heart, —  a  little  black-faced  baby  holding  its 
breath  till  it  almost  died  because  it  could  n't  get 
what  it  wanted,  the  way  they  tell  me  I  used  to 
do, —  I  never  needed  you  so  much  when  I  wore 
pink  socks  and  little  crocheted  sacks,  as  I  do  to- 
day. I  wonder  if  you  remember  about  the  socks 
and  the  sacks,  up  there  in  your  great  silence  ? 
Have  the  angels  driven  baby-clothes  out  of  your 
heart  ?  I  don't  believe  it !  Because  I  remem- 
ber how  much  you  littled  me,  before  you  died  — 
I  don't  see  many  mothers  like  you  in  these 
grown-up  days.  Once,  when  you  had  been  to 
Montreal  with  Father,  and  I  had  that  typhoid 
fever  and  so  nearly  died,  and  you  came  home, 
and  got  to  my  bed  without  anybody's  telling  me, 
and  I  thought  it  was  the  strange  nurse,  but  some- 
thing fell  on  my  face,  hot,  fast, —  drop  after  drop, 
splashing  down, —  I  thought :  '  Nurses  don't 
cry  over  little  girl  patients,'  and  I  looked,  and 
they  were  my  mother's  tears,  and  it  was  my 
mother's  face. 

"  Sacred  mother's  tears !     Flow  for  me  to-day. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       59 

My  mother's  face  !     Lean  down  to  mine  a  little, 
out  of  heaven,  if  you  can. 

"  Kiss  me,  Mother  —  if  they  will  let  you.     I 
have  told  him  I  would  wear  his  ruby  ring." 


So  the  princess,  for  she  was  royal,  gainsaid  him  not. 

"Mr  DEAR  MR.  HERWIN  :  I  have  worn  it  five 
hours.  I  cannot  stand  it  another  minute.  It 
seems  to  cut  into  my  finger,  and  to  eat  my  flesh 
like  fire.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  led,  a  prisoner.  It 
seems  to  me  like  handcuffs.  I  don't  like  it  at 
all ;  I  really  don't. 

"  I  have  taken  it  off,  and,  you  see,  it  fell  on 
the  floor.  It  has  rolled  away  under  the  bureau. 
Job  has  gone  to  try  to  find  it.  Probably  he 
thinks  it  is  a  collar.  I  'm  sure  I  should  n't  blame 
him  if  he  did.  It  strikes  me,  I  must  say,  very 
much  in  that  same  light. 

"  Pray  don't  feel  at  all  hurt  if  I  return  it  to 
you  to-morrow.  You  won't,  will  you?  Really, 
I  don't  wish  to  be  rude,  or  to  hurt  your  feelings. 
If  I  supposed  it  possible  that  you  could  try  to 
understand  —  but  men  are  born  so  dull.  I  don't 
know  why.  I  think  God  found  his  finest  nature 
unemployed  on  the  making  of  Adam,  and  so 
poor  Eve  was  sacrificed  to  its  expression. 


60       CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

"  I     don't    mean     anything    profane,    either. 
Truly,  I  think  only  the  Being  who  created  her 
can  possibly  understand  how  a  woman  feels. 
"  Shall  I  send  you  back  the  ruby  ? 
"  Your  troubled 

"  WILDERNESS  GIRL. 

"  P.S.  Job  has  found  the  ring.  He  made  a 
ball  of  it,  and  rolled  it  all  over  the  floor,  before 
I  could  stop  him.  Then  he  took  it  and  shook 
it,  and  dropped  it  in  his  bowl  of  water  —  the 
wine-colored  glass  finger-bowl  that  I  keep  in  my 
room  for  him.  So  it  is  quite  clean,  and  not 
hurt  a  bit. 

"  P.P.S.  It  is  a  wonderful  ruby.  I  admire 
your  taste  in  selecting  it,  even  if  I  cannot  wear 
your  ring.  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  a  finer.  It 
has  a  heart  as  deep  as  life  and  as  shy  as  love ; 
and  the  color  is  something  so  exquisite  that  I 
could  look  at  it  all  night." 

Tuesday  evening. 

"  DEAR,  I  am  sorry.  I  was  wrong  and  foolish, 
like  a  pouting  child.  And  I  will  wear  it,  after 
all.  When  you  took  my  ringless  hand  so  gently, 
and  looked  at  it  so  sadly,  and  laid  it  down  with- 
out a  word,  I  could  have  curled  myself  against 
your  heart,  and  put  my  arms  about  you,  and 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       61 

lifted  my  lips  to  you  of  my  own  free  will.  No ; 
I  know  I  did  n't.  But  I  punish  myself  by  tell- 
ing you  what  I  feel  like  doing,  if  that  is  any 
comfort  to  you.  I  never  saw  you  look  so  glori- 
ous in  my  life.  If  ever  I  should  marry  you,  sir, 
I  shall  spoil  you,  for  I  shall  let  you  know  what  a 
handsome  man  you  are.  There  's  something 
about  your  hair  —  and  the  pose  of  your  head. 
And  your  eyes  are  like  a  revolving  light  in  a 
lighthouse,  I  think :  they  darken  and  blaze,  and 
then  I  miss  a  revolution,  and  they  blaze  and 
darken.  I  sometimes  wish  I  could  see  your 
mouth.  The  other  way  of  getting  acquainted 
with  it  does  not  seem  quite  judicial.  Of  course 
a  dark  mustache  becomes  you,  but  still  it  is  a 
little  like  a  mask  or  a  domino,  after  all,  is  n't  it"? 
Once  in  a  while  it  comes  over  me  —  like  that! 
What  kind  of  man  is  in  his  mouth  ?  All  I  know 
to-night  is  that  he  is  a  man  dear  to  me ;  so  dear 
that  when  I  am  with  him  I  cannot  let  him  know 
how  dear  he  is,  and  when  I  am  away  from  him 
I  cannot  do  anything  but  write  him  notes  to  try 
to  tell  him. 

"  That  last  of  yours  (by  Maggie)  was  a  lovely 
letter.  I  suppose  it  is  what  people  call  a  love-let- 
ter. I  wish  I  could  send  you  anything  like  that. 
It  took  my  breath  away.  I  felt  smothered. 
But  I  cannot  write  like  that.  No.  My  heart 


62       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

steps  back  and  waits  for  yours.  I  should  like 
you  to  write  me  on  and  on  like  that  forever,  and 
I  should  like  to  answer  you  always  far  beyond 
you,  always  stepping  back  a  little  —  waiting  for 
you,  on  forever,  till  you  overtook  me. 

"  Perhaps,  if  I  had  my  way,  you  never  should 
overtake  me.  I  grant  you  that.  But  it  is  just 
possible  I  might  not  be  let  to  have  my  way; 
and  I  recognize  that,  too. 

"  If  you  come  into  the  tree-house  to-morrow 

evening,  after  Father  is  done   with   you,  there 

will  be  a  moon — and  Job  —  and  perhaps  a  girl. 

And  you  may  put  the  ring  where   it  belongs. 

"For  I  am 

"  Your  penitent 

"  MARNA. 

"P.S.  That  is,  if  I  don't  change  my  mind 
by  that  time.  I  warn  you,  I  'm  capable  of  it. 

"  P.P.S.  Job  is  too  jealous  for  anything. 
He  positively  sulks  when  I  mention  you  by 
name.  I  don't  suppose  you  noticed  how  he 
growled  when  you  kissed  my  chin  that  evening. 
I  am  glad  you  don't  do  it  lately,  for  I  think  he 
might  snap  at  you  and  hurt  you.  He  does  n't 
look  formidable,  I  own,  but  that  is  the  very  kind 
that  does  the  most  harm  —  in  men  and  dogs." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       63 

"  THOU  dearest !  It  was  Eden  in  the  tree- 
house.  And  I  wear  thy  ruby  ring. 

"Thy 

"  MARNA. 

"  P.S.  Did  you  ever  dream  of  such  a  moon 
in  the  wildest  and  dearest  dream  you  ever  had  ? 
I  never  did.  It  swam  in  a  new  heaven;  and 
we  —  we  were  in  a  new  earth ;  and  every  flower 
in  the  garden  needed  a  new  name.  My  heart 
was  a  Child  (with  a  big  C)  sitting  at  the  feet  of 
the  garden,  as  (you  said)  your  love  knelt  down 
at  mine.  Every  flower  was  taller  than  I  —  the 
haughty  fleur-de-lis,  and  the  tender  white  roses, 
and  even  the  modest  pansies,  and  the  little,  plain 
candytuft,  that  looks  like  daily  life  and  pleasant 
duty  —  they  all  seemed  to  tower  above  me,  like 
the  flowers  of  a  strange  country  of  which  I  did 
not  know  the  botany.  Love,  I  think,  is  flora 
without  a  botany.  You  cannot  name  a  feeling, 
and  classify  it,  when  you  love.  It  would  escape 
you,  and  you, 

too  late, 
Under  its  solemn  fillet  see  the  scorn. 

I  could  not  speak,  out  in  the  tree-house,  as  you 
did.  My  lips  trembled  too  much.  And  when 
yours  touched  them,  they  did  but  tremble  more. 


64       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

I  was  afraid  I  should  cry  —  truly  I  was  —  all 
the  time. 

"  Alas  !  you  are  a  man,  and  you  cannot  under- 
stand what  I  mean.  But  the  ruby  understands. 
That  is  the  nature  of  a  ruby :  it  knows  every- 
thing about  love,  and  something  about  a  woman. 

"  MARNA,  Prisoner." 

"Mv  DEAR  JAILER:  I  heard  a  story  to-day. 
Senator  Gray  told  it  at  lunch,  and  I  meant 
to  tell  you  it  this  evening,  but,  somehow,  I 
did  n't. 

"A  young  medical  student  loved  a  girl,  and 
became  betrothed  to  her.  (I  like  that  word 
'  betrothal,'  as  I  told  you.  Father  knew  a  great 
poet,  once,  who  announced  to  his  friends  'the 
betrothal  of  my  daughter.'  Nobody  ever  spoke 
of  that  girl  as  '  engaged '  after  that !)  So  my 
medical  student  loved  a  girl,  and  —  no,  on  con- 
sideration, he  became  engaged. 

"You  and  I,  if  you  please,  are  betrothed. 
But  I  am  sure  the  fine  and  stately  word  would 
blush  to  own  that  man,  though  he  loved  the  girl, 
after  his  fashion,  and  she  was  a  sweet,  womanly 
girl  —  I  know  about  the  family.  And  so  he 
went  abroad  to  finish  his  studies  on  the  Conti- 
nent. There  he  dissected  and  experimented,  and 
went  through  the  modern  laboratories,  and  came 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       65 

out  of  them  and  back  to  his  own  land,  and  went 
to  see  the  girl. 

"  And  when  she  asked  him  what  was  the  mat- 
ter, and  why  he  was  so  changed,  and  what  gave 
his  eyes  that  new,  cold  look,  he  said : 

"  'In  all  my  studies  I  have  not  found  love.  I 
have  dissected  and  experimented,  and  been 
through  the  laboratories.  I  have  searched,  and  I 
do  not  find  anything  that  can  be  called  love.  I 
have  dissected  a  great  many  brains  and  hearts,  and 
I  have  drawn  conclusions.  I  have  come  across 
some  points  in  toxicology,  and  I  have  reason 
to  believe  I  am  on  the  track  of  a  new  method 
of  antisepsis  —  but  I  have  not  discovered 
love.  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  there 
is  no  such  thing.  It  cannot  be  proved.  My 
scalpel  has  never  touched  it.  My  micro- 
scope has  never  seen  it.  I  am  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  does  not  exist.  It  cannot  be 
proved.' 

" '  Very  well,'  said  the  girl ;  4  if  you  cannot 
prove  the  existence  of  love,  I  can.' 

" '  Prove  it  to  me ! '  cried  the  young  man, 
anxiously,  for  he  really  liked  the  girl.  *  I  shall 
be  under  obligations  to  you  if  you  can  convince 
me  of  the  existence  of  love.' 

" '  You  will  excuse  me,'  said  the  girl. 
'  Good-by.'  So  they  shook  hands,  and  he  went 


66      CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

back  to  his  physiological  laboratories,  where  he 
is  experimenting  and  dissecting  to  this  day. 

"  But  the  girl  took  a  Sunday-school  class  and 
joined  the  Associated  Charities. 

"  I  thought  you  would  enjoy  that  story.  Dear, 
I  thought  I  loved  you  when  you  said  you  liked 
my  looks  by  the  moonlight,  in  my  Mayflower 
dress.  But  I  love  you  more  now  than  I  did 
then. 

"It  is  the  most  curious  thing  —  the  moment 
I  am  away  from  you  I  want  to  sit  right  down 
and  write  a  note  to  you.  I  am  glad  you  feel 
the  same  way.  I  have  quite  a  pile  of  them,  all 
locked  up,  because  Job  chews  them  so.  He 
seems  to  know  they  are  yours,  and  takes  the 
most  violent  aversion  to  them.  One  night  he 
tore  that  one  to  pieces — do  you  remember"? — 
the  one  I  told  you  I  did  n't  just  exactly  like. 
I  don't  mean,  of  course,  that  it  was  n't  quite  a 
right  letter.  One  reason  I  like  you  so  much  is 
because  you  are  such  a  gentleman.  But,  some- 
how, it  made  me  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  go  and 
show  it  to  my  mother,  and  she  is  dead,  and  I 
could  n't  do  it.  Job  bit  that  note  all  up,  so 
I  had  to  burn  it;  there  was  n't  a  legible  word 
left  in  it.  Perhaps  I  am  a  little  bit  of  a  Puritan, 
as  you  say.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  am  born 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       67 

that  way.  I  like  to  be  loved  finely  —  if  you 
know  what  I  mean;  and  perhaps  I  like  to  be 
loved  quietly.  I  think  you  must  know,  because 
nobody  can  be  finer  than  you,  or  more  quiet, 
either,  when  you  feel  like  it.  Sometimes  I 
think  there  are  two  of  you,  and  the  other  one  is 
strong  and  masterful,  and  rides  over  things  and 
people  and  feelings,  and  has  its  own  way  at  any 
cost.  Forgive  me,  Dear;  perhaps  I  should  not 
say  these  things.  But  you  know  there  are  two 
of  me  also,  and  one  girl  stands  off  and  judges 
the  other  girl  —  and  sometimes  looks  on  at  you 
as  if  you  were  not  mine,  but  belonged  to  some 
other  woman.  I  don't  think  I  am  as  fond  of  a 
masterful  man,  not  just  of  his  mere  masterful- 
ness, as  most  girls  are.  It  does  n't  seem  to  con- 
fuse me,  or  make  me  see  things  differently.  If 
we  were  up  in  a  captive  balloon  together,  over 
the  tops  of  the  elms,  in  an  easterly  storm,  and 
you  said,  '  Come !  We  will  free  the  balloon  and 
ride  on  the  storm,'  I  suppose  there  are  girls  who 
would  put  their  arms  about  your  neck  and  say, 
'  Yes,  if  you  wish  it,  we  will  ride  on  the  storm/ 
But  I  should  probably  say: 

'"Dana,  let  's  keep  our  heads  and  go  down.' 
"  Then,  if  you  were  good  and  went  down,  and 
we  came  home  safely  —  and  I  should  be  a  little 
faint,  and  all  tired  out  (for  I  think  I  should), 


68       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

and  you  carried  me  into  the  house,  and  I  saw 
how  noble  you  were,  and  strong,  and  grand,  I 
should — oh,  my  dear!  I  would  make  it  up  to  you. 
"Once  you  told  me  I  was  cold  —  to  you.     I 
was  sorry.     But  I  did  n't  say  anything.     I  only 
wished  you  had  understood.     I  think  I  am  writ- 
ing this  note  to  try  to  make  you  understand. 
"  Your 

"MARNA,  Betrothed." 

"  Bar  Harbor,  July  the  twenty-fifth. 
"  MY  DEAR  AND  DISTANT  :  Now,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  know  what  distance  means. 
I  thought  I  knew,  of  course.  The  curious 
thing  about  inexperience  is  that  it  does  not  rec- 
ognize its  master  in  experience ;  perhaps,  if  it 
did,  it  would  cease  to  be  inexperience.  That  re- 
minds me  that  you  told  me  once  that  I  spelled 
love  with  a  small  /  instead  of  with  a  large  one 
like  most  women,  and  that  you  should  never  be 
satisfied  with  mine  until  you  had  taught  me  to 
read  it  with  a  capital  L,  and  another  word  with 
a  capital  M.  I  think  you  said  it  was  the  very 
essence  of  loving,  in  a  woman,  to  spell  her  feel- 
ing properly — and  that,  as  long  as  she  did  not, 
she  was  still  half  unwon.  I  wonder  how  you 
happen  to  think  you  know  what  is  the  essence 
of  loving  in  a  woman? 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       69 

"  At  least,  I  have  got  so  far  as  this :  I  don't 
know  but  I  am  beginning  to  spell  Love  with  a 
capital  L.  For  it  is  the  dreadful  truth,  Dana 
Herwin,  that  I  miss  you  —  I  really  do.  I  should 
not  have  thought  that  I  would  at  all;  I  mean, 
not  like  this  —  not  to  be  uncomfortable,  you 
know,  and  to  come  so  near  being  unhappy  that 
you  cease  to  be  happy.  I  think  —  do  you  want 
to  know  what  I  think1?  And  I  feel  —  but  you 
are  not  to  know  what  I  feel.  In  the  morning, 
when  I  wake,  I  turn  and  look  at  the  sea,  between 
Mrs.  Gray's  pretty  curtains  (they  are  white  and 
sheer,  with  green  seaweed  over  them),  and  I  say: 
*  All  that  ocean  and  land  are  between  us :  sixteen 
hours  of  it  by  boat,  and  over  ten  by  train.'  In  the 
evening,  when  the  rest  are  canoeing,  or  chatting 
on  piazzas,  I  like  to  get  by  myself.  I  make  all 
sorts  of  excuses  to  be  alone — which  is  not  nat- 
ural to  me,  I  'd  have  you  understand,  for,  though 
I  am  a  Wilderness  Girl,  I  am  a  clannish  girl ;  I 
like  my  tribe,  and  I  don't  mope.  And,  when  I 
am  alone,  there  is  the  most  humiliating  monotony 
in  my  thoughts.  First  it  is  your  hair  —  I  see  the 
way  it  curls;  I  look  at  all  the  straight-haired 
men  I  meet,  and  wonder  what  kinds  of  women 
love  them.  Then  your  eyes  —  I  see  your  eyes 
flashing  and  darkening,  like  that  revolving  light 
I  spoke  of,  and  missing  a  revolution,  and  dark- 


70       CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

ening  again  before  they  blaze.  Then  I  try  to 
make  out  how  your  mouth  looks  without  me  — 
but  I  never  see  your  mouth.  Do  you  think  I 
should  love  you  as  much  if  you  shaved?  Let 
me  believe  that  I  should  love  you  more !  Then 
your  voice  —  but  somehow  your  voice  escapes 
me ;  and  with  it  a  part  of  you  escapes  me,  too. 
I  am  a  little  confused  when  it  comes  to  your 
voice.  I  only  seem  to  get  it  reading  '  Rufus 
Choate  '  to  Father.  Dear  Father !  I  know  you 
are  good  to  him,  for  he  has  the  most  unreason- 
able habit  of  missing  me ;  it  is  quite  confirmed, 
and  that  is  why  I  make  so  few  trips.  Thanks 
to  him,  I  never  can  be  called  a  visiting  young 
lady. 

"  But  he  took  a  notion  about  my  coming  to 
Senator  Gray's.  He  said  I  looked  —  I  think  it 
was  '  transparent '  —  some  preposterous  word.  I 
suppose  it  comes  of  my  feeling  strange  and 
changed  —  exhilarated  all  the  time.  Yet  that 
seems  too  low  a  word.  Call  it  exalted,  rather. 
There  's  been  a  good  deal  written  by  poets  and 
other  uncomfortable  people  that  I  begin  to  un- 
derstand, while  yet  I  know  that  I  do  not  com- 
prehend it.  Now,  the  way  they  have  of  classify- 
ing Love  (with  a  capital,  please  observe,  sir)  as 
if  it  were  to  be  found  at  a  first-class  vintner's — that 
perplexes  me;  for  me  it  does  not  intoxicate. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       71 

And  if  you  are  disappointed,  I  am  sorry.  But 
perhaps  I  am  what  Goethe  called  a  Nature ;  if  I 
am,  you  will  accept  my  Nature  as  you  do  every- 
thing about  me,  faults  and  all,  and  not  complain  ? 
You  are  generous  and  noble  to  me,  Dana!  I 
never  knew  how  many  faults  I  had  until  it  befell 
me  that  I  wished  to  be  a  very  superior  girl  for 
your  sake.  I  never  felt  so  sorry  and  ashamed 
of  them  as  I  have  since  I  began  to  wish  my  soul 
a  perfect  ruby, —  like  this  of  yours  I  wear, — 
deep,  deep  down,  pure  fire,  and  flawless.  I  won- 
der do  you  like  my  tourmalin  *?  You  never  said 
very  much  about  it  (and  I  could  not,  somehow, 
ask  you).  I  know  it  is  a  reserved  stone,  not 
talking  much.  It  seemed  to  me  shy,  like  a  be- 
trothed girl's  heart;  a  stone  that  waits  for  some- 
thing, and  has  the  beauty  of  that  which  is 
unexpressed,  although  quite  understood. 

"  I  think  I  meant  to  say  something  quite  dif- 
ferent a  page  back.  I  will  look  and  see.  Yes, 
it  was  about  wines.  I  suspect  I  was  a  little 
afraid  to  say  it,  and  so  strayed  off  to  jewels,  a 
less  fluent  subject.  My  pen  has  stiffened  up 
on  it. 

"  Ah,  yes,  now  I  know ;  it  was  about  the  dif- 
ference between  exhilaration  and  exaltation  — 
which  seems  to  me  the  difference  between  different 
kinds  of  Love.  And  I  believe  I  began  to  say: 


72       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

If  Love  is  a  wine,  it  is  a  communion  wine, —  to 
me, —  and  I  taste  it  on  my  knees. 

"For  I  am,  Sacredly, 

"YouR  MARNA." 


"  THOU  strongest !  What  a  ruby  is  thy  love 
for  me !  My  letters  seem  paler  than  tourmalins 
beside  yours.  And  yet  —  and  yet  I  am  not  sure  : 
I  think  they  love  you  more  than  they  show ;  but 
not  more  than  I  hoped  you  would  see  without 
the  showing.  Try  to  see  !  Try  to  understand 
"  Your 

"  WILDERNESS  GIRL  IN  CHAINS." 


"MY  DEAR  BOY:  I  have  just  got  Father's  let- 
ter agreeing  to  the  West  Sanchester  plan.  He 
says  you  have  closed  the  lease  of  the  Dowe  Cot- 
tage for  him  for  August  and  September.  He 
asks  me  if  I  would  like  to  have  him  invite  you 
there  for  two  weeks  to  stay  with  us.  I  am  writ- 
ing him  by  this  mail.  I  said  I  would  try  to  put 
up  with  it. 

"  Mr.  Herwin,  will  you  be  my  father's  guest 
and  mine,  and  the  ocean's,  for  half  the  month  of 
August,  at  Sanchester? 

"  I  hope  we  shall  not  quarrel.  We  never 
were  under  the  same  roof  for  twenty-four  hours. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       73 

Who   knows  ?     I   think  it  is  preposterous,  the 
way  I  continue  to  miss  you. 

"  I  am  Your  loving 

"  LONELINESS." 

"  DANA  dear,  I  'm  coming  home.  Really,  I 
cannot  stand  it  another  day.  Don't  flatter  your- 
self for  I  am  convinced  that  I  flatter  you  all  that 
you  can  bear  without  spoiling. 

"  Mrs.  Gray  has  been  talking  to  me.  She 
says  more  marriages  are  ruined  by  a  woman's 
spoiling  a  man  than  there  are  by  a  man's  neglect- 
ing a  woman.  I  told  her  I  failed  to  see  how 
either  event  was  at  all  possible.  She  said,  '  My 
dear,  you  are  like  your  mother.' 

"  Half  the  Wilderness  Girl  seems  to  be  blotted 
out  of  me  by  separation  from  you.  I  have 
missed  you  too  much.  If  I  surprise  you  by  being 
too  civilized,  after  all,  where  shall  we  end1? 
Our  betrothal  would  become  a  tame  and  com- 
monplace affair,  and  I  know  better  than  you  do 
how  much  that  would  disappoint  you. 

"  You  write  me  such  love-letters  as  I  think  no 
woman  ever  had.  I  am  ashamed  of  my  poor, 
pale  things  beside  them.  But,  Dear,  yours  hush 
me  —  like  your  lips  on  mine.  And  perhaps  it  is 
because  I  feel  so  much  that  I  can  say  so  little. 
"  Your  own  MARNA. 


74       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  P.S.  Job  is  gladder  than  anything  to  be 
coming  home.  I  told  him  we  were  going,  and 
he  has  sat  upon  my  trunk  and  begged  ever  since. 
Job  totally  disapproves  of  Bar  Harbor.  It '  com- 
bines so  much '  wretchedness  for  him  that  I  quite 
pity  him.  He  never  went  on  a  visit  before,  and 
is  n't  at  all  accustomed  to  leash  life.  He  has 
chewed  up  five  beautiful  skye  ribbon  leashes 
since  we  came.  They  are  about  all  he  eats,  and 
he  has  grown  quite  thin.  Then,  Mrs.  Gray  is 
one  of  the  dogless  people,  and  although  she  in- 
vited him,  she  is  not  accustomed  to  skye  terriers 
sleeping  in  her  guest-rooms.  I  brought  on  his 
basket,  but  I  saw  at  once  it  would  have  to  stand 
in  the  sewing-room  nights.  I  was  so  thankful  it 
was  n't  the  stable  that  I  was  quite  reconciled. 
But  Job  never  has  been.  The  first  night  he 
howled  till  2  A.M.,  and  —  don't  you  ever  tell ! — 
I  had  to  go  and  sneak  him  into  my  own  bed  to 
keep  him  still.  He  curled  in  my  neck  and 
sobbed  like  a  terrified  baby.  But  the  next  night 
he  only  cried  till  twelve,  and  since  then  he  has 
been  a  -perfect  guest.  Nobody  ever  knew  he  bit 
the  Secretary  of  War  on  the  heel  because  he 
danced  with  me  once.  And  out  of  a  gallantry 
which,  I  admit,  was  rather  fine  in  him,  the 
Secretary  of  War  never  told.  He  is  a  wid- 
ower, you  know,  and  has  been  visiting  Mr.  Gray. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      75 

And  Mr.  Gray  thought  it  was  the  cat  who  car- 
ried the  rat  into  the  waste-paper  basket  in  the 
library,  and  buried  it  in  philanthropic  petitions. 

"  P.P.S.  The  Secretary  of  War  wished  me 
to  send  you  his  congratulations.  But  he  did 
suggest  that  I  ask  you  whether  you  were  an  ad- 
vocate of  vivisection,  or  expected  to  become  so 
after  marriage. 

"  Job  won't  let  him  come  within  twenty  feet 
of  me.  And  by  to-morrow  evening  I  shall  be  — 
how  near  to  you  *?  We  will  begin  with  twenty 
feet,  sir ;  and  then  —  we  '11  see  — 

"  Your  foolish,  too  joyous 

"  MARNA." 

August  the  second. 

I  HAVE  always  said  I  would  not  come  to  San- 
chester  unless  I  could  have  the  Dowe  Cottage, 
and  here  we  are.  I  have  loved  and  envied  it  all 
my  life ;  it  is  the  one  perfect  situation  on  the 
East  Shore.  I  don't  care  a  wild  rose  for  any  of 
the  other  places  about  here.  I  wonder  how 
many  strangers  visiting  the  Cape  have  seen  this 
house  from  the  cars,  and  said,  "  Now,  if  I  could 
have  that ! " 

The  house  is  well  enough,  but   it   is   n't  the 

O      ' 

house  that  I  care  for;  it  is  the  dream  of  shore 

6 


76      CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

and  sea  that  goes  with  it.  The  water  is  broken 
into  gentleness  by  the  shape  of  the  cove  ;  it  does 
not  rave,  but  sighs ;  the  curve  of  the  beach  is  as 
delicate  as  a  lady's  lip ;  there  is  the  something 
too  bewitching  not  to  be  elusive  about  the  shapes 
of  the  rocks  and  the  foreground  of  old  fishermen 
and  their  old  dories  pushing  off,  and  the  nets;  it 
all  seems  to  assume  difference  each  time  that  you 
look;  and  there  is  a  weir  here  this  summer.  It 
is  going  to  be  so  beautiful  that  I  perceive  it  will 
turn  my  head.  I  waked  at  sunrise  to-day  and 
ran  to  my  window,  and  sat  there  for  an  hour, 
drowned  in  the  daybreak,  drunken  with  beauty. 
There  is  rose-color  in  my  room,  and  sky-color  in 
the  guest-room,  and  pearl  tint  in  the  little  room 
between  where  I  am  to  put  Maggie,  and  all  the 
rest  of  the  cottage  is  green  and  white,  or  white 
and  green,  absolutely  nothing  else.  It  makes 
the  house  seem  like  one  wave,  tossed,  I  think, 
into  foam,  except  just  here,  up  where  I  am,  and 
the  foam  has  the  colors  of  sunrise  and  sunset  — 
like  that  wave  beyond  the  weir,  living  and  dying 
like  a  rainbow  as  I  write. 

I  am  so  happy  that  I  am  afraid.  It  is  as  if  I 
were  a  wave  —  alive  and  strong  this  minute, 
but  sure  to  be  broken  and  spent  the  next.  Hap- 
piness is  a  tide :  it  carries  you  only  a  little 
way  at  a  time;  but  you  have  covered  a  vast 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      77 

space    before  you  know  that  you  are   moving 
at  all. 

I  cannot  think  who  wrote  those  lines  that  I 
have  always  liked : 

By  the  law  of  the  land  and  the  ocean, 
I  summon  the  tide  eternal 

To  flow  for  you  and  me.    .   .   . 

When  shall  the  flood-tide  be  ? 


I  wonder  if  misery  is  like  this,  too —  a  great  ebb ; 
the  going  out  slowly  of  joy,  wave  by  wave,  till 
half  the  sea  is  emptied  and  all  the  shore  is  dry. 
Or  is  it  one  shock  and  cataclysm  of  nature, 
plunging  over  you  at  a  crash  —  the  tidal  wave 
of  experience  ?  It  is  hard  for  me  to-day  to  be- 
lieve that  I  can  ever  be  unhappy;  or,  indeed, 
that  any  other  young,  live,  loving  girl  in  the 
world  can  be.  I  am  so  happy  that  I  find  I  can- 
not do  anything  at  all  but  sing  or  pray;  but  I 
should  not  tell  any  person  that,  not  even  Dana. 
I  don't  think  he  would  understand.  When  I 
sing,  my  song  is  half  a  prayer,  and  if  I  prayed, 
my  prayer  would  be  something  like  a  song.  It 
makes  a  strange  medley  —  may  the  Lord  forgive 
me  !  and  I  think  He  will. 

Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven — 
"  Why  not  to  Heaven  ?  "  quo'  she. 


78       CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

Dana  will  be  here  in  an  hour.  The  6:20 
train  is  just  leaving  town.  He  has  been  delayed 
by  his  first  law  case.  Job  and  I  must  dress  at 
once,  and  go  to  the  station  to  meet  him.  I  think 
I  shall  wear  my  white  India;  he  seems  to  like 
it.  And  then  any  of  Job's  ribbons  will  go  with 
it.  I  shall  take  the  chiffon  sunshade  —  the  one 
he  called  "  such  pretty  nonsense."  I  have  the 
most  preposterous  affection  for  that  sunshade. 
There  's  one  thing  that  perplexes  me,  and  as 
long  as  he  will  never,  never  see  the  Accepted 
Manuscript,  I  may  as  well  say  what  it  is  just  now 
and  here.  There  was  once  a  Wilderness  Girl  I 
knew.  What  has  become  of  her"?  Where 
shall  I  turn  to  find  her*?  Whither  has  she  fled 
from  me  ?  Is  she  melting  out  on  the  tide,  wave 
by  wave?  Shall  I  lose  her  altogether  in  the 
sea? 

1  A.M. 

I  DON'T  know  why  I  cannot  sleep,  for  I  am  very 
happy.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  so  happy,  or 
perhaps  it  is  being  happy  in  so  new  a  way  that 
keeps  me  staring  out  here  at  the  sea,  with  the 
gas  low,  and  the  curtains  streaming  straight  out 
from  the  window  in  the  strong  southeasterly,  the 
way  they  do  nights  at  the  seaside  and  never  any- 
where else.  They  fill  like  sails,  and  the  room 
seems  a  ship.  I  write  a  little  by  the  dim  light, 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       79 

—  for  I  don't  feel  like  turning  it  up, —  and  then 
I  stare  a  little,  and  then  I  write  a  little  more. 

Maggie,  in  her  gray  room,  is  sleeping  stoutly. 
And  beyond,  in  the  sky-blue,  sea-blue  guest-room 

—  I  wonder  if  he  is  asleep,  too  ?      To  be   to- 
gether in  the  same  house,  so  near  each  other,  is  a 
strange  and  solemn  thing. 

Father  said  to-night:  "You  are  as  thoughtful 
of  me  as  a  son." 

Father  is  very  fond  of  him.  And  I —  I  love 
him  so  much  that  I  begin  to  be  afraid  of  him. 
I  wish  he  were  not  quite  so  superb  to  look  at. 
Sometimes  I  wish  he  were  just  a  plain  man,  so 
that  I  could  stand  off  and  get  an  impression  of 
him  that  would  have  a  certain  value.  He  daz- 
zles me.  We  all  have  our  own  forms  of  pagan- 
ism, and  worship  them  in  secret,  being  but  half 
Christianized  for  their  sakes.  I  think  I  have  said 
before  that  my  paganism  is  omnipotent  beauty. 

.  .  .  Thou  glorious  !  Here  alone  in  my  rose- 
colored  room,  nothing  but  this  white  paper  being 
witness,  my  soul  turns  to  thee  as  if  thou  wert  a 
god  upon  a  cloud.  To  thee  I  swerve.  Some- 
thing within  me  cries,  "  Worship  !  "  I  struggle 
to  keep  my  feet. 

Stay  you  the  rather  at  mine.  When  you 
kneeled  to  me  this  evening,  I  battled  with  my- 
self, that  you  should  not  know  how  I  longed  to 


8o       CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

stretch  down  my  hands  and  lift  you  up  and  drop 
before  you.  You  called  me  all  the  goddess 
names.  And  I,  an  adoring  girl,  accepted  them. 

Now  Nature  avenges  herself  upon  me,  here 
alone,  with  this  mute  white  paper,  in  the  sacred 
night;  and  I  write,  for  you  do  not  know  it,  and 
because  you  shall  never  know  it —  I  write  you  a 
note  which  you  are  never  to  see. 

"My  Love:  I  am  yours  utterly. 

"  Mama." 

"  MY  DEAR  DANA  :  It  seems  quite  out  of  the 
course  of  nature  not  to  write  a  letter  to  you 
every  day.  I  am  too  much  in  the  habit  of  it  to 
stop  too  suddenly.  So  I  send  this  line  by  Mag- 
gie. I  am  a  little  tired  this  morning, —  I  did  not 
sleep  very  well,  for  Job  sniffed  all  about  the  room 
for  mice,  and  upset  his  pink  finger-bowl  on  some 
slippers  and  things  of  mine ;  he  is  n't  at  home 
yet  in  the  Dowe  Cottage, —  and,  if  you  don't 
mind,  I  won't  see  you  till  luncheon.  Father 
will  need  you  in  a  thousand  ways,  and  you  might 
call  on  the  Curtis  girls,  if  time  hangs  heavily. 
I  'm  sure  Minnie  Curtis  will  be  glad  to  see  you. 
She  always  was.  And  I  shall  get  downstairs  by 
degrees,  perhaps  by  half-past  twelve. 

"  Yours  affectionately, 

"  MARNA." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       81 

IT  is  a  week  since  he  came  to  the  Wave.  (That 
is  what  we  have  agreed  to  call  this  house.)  I 
used  to  think  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  happy. 
Now  I  see  that  I  had  not  studied  the  grammar 
of  joy.  Dana  says : 

"  You  have  not  learned  the  alphabet  yet. 
You  play  truant  too  often." 

"  Why  don't  you  keep  me  in  school,  then  *?  " 
I  said.  "  That  is  your  business." 

He  made  me  no  answer  at  all,  and  that  is  what 
makes  me  uncomfortable.  When  he  speaks  I 
know  the  worst.  But  when  he  only  looks  at 
me,  I  am  afraid  of  him  and  of  what  is  coming. 
He  has  a  terrible  way  of  biding  his  time.  I 
never  know  when  he  is  done  with  a  subject. 

There  is  something  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land  about  these  days.  I  seem  afloat,  all  the 
time,  between  the  ocean  and  the  sky ;  and  if  my 
feet  touch  the  earth,  they  spurn  it,  as  if  they 
had  wings,  and  I  go  whirling  off  and  up.  Now 
I  am  a  creature  of  the  air;  height  is  my 
element ;  flight  is  the  condition  of  being,  and  I 
flee.  Then  I  am  flung  down  swiftly,  and  find 
myself  a  creature  of  the  sea;  the  deeps  are  my 
home ;  to  be  engulfed  is  the  condition  of  being, 
and  I  drown.  There  are  moments  when  I  am 
tossed  and  driven  blindly,  and  traverse  vast 
spaces  of  the  under-sea,  visit  sunken  wrecks,  float 


82       CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

past  buried  treasure ;  and  then  I  am  hurled  up 
and  back,  and  thrown  panting  on  the  shore. 
Then  I  perceive  that  I  am  a  weed  upon  a  wave, 
and  whithersoever  the  wave  wills,  there  am  I 
borne,  and  because  I  am  a  weed  I  do  not  buffet 
the  wave,  but  love  it,  and  it  driveth  me,  for  it  is 
a  wave. 

But  I  do  not  show  these  things  that  I  perceive 
to  him. 

For  the  princess  hid  from  him. 

Of  flying  or  drowning  we  do  not  speak  together. 
And  he  calls  me  a  truant  of  the  heart.  What 
paradise  is  betrothal !  I  would  be  his  promised 
wife  forever.  I  do  not  think  that  Adam  and 
Eve  in  Eden  were  married  for  a  long  time.  And 
if  they  had  never  been  married  at  all,  Paradise 
would  have  been  eternal.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  of  that. 

August  the  twelfth. 

A  TERRIBLE  thing  has  happened.  Paradise  is 
lost.  So  soon,  too  soon,  I  am  exiled  from  my 
Eden;  and  each  soul's  Eden  is  its  own.  We 
may  exchange  tastes,  habits,  characters  even,  in 
this  world :  our  Edens  are  untransferable ;  and 
an  angel  with  a  frowning  smile  stands  guard  at 
the  gates  of  mine,  already,  to  bar  me  out.  That 
frowning  smile  is  the  nature  of  a  man.  Dana 
wishes  me  to  marry  him  the  first  of  October. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       83 

August  the  thirteenth. 

I  SAID  he  had  not  done  with  the  subject  — 
that  day  he  looked  at  me  and  did  not  talk; 
but  I  did  not  expect  anything  so  formidable 
as  this. 

He  has  had  an  uncle  die  —  that  is  the  short  of 
it;  he  went  away  for  two  days  to  the  funeral. 
When  he  came  back  he  brought  a  piece  of  dis- 
mal news  and  this  preposterous  proposition.  It 
seems  that  this  uncle  must  needs  go  and  leave 
him  all  the  money  he  had.  I  don't  fancy  it  is 
much  —  I  would  n't  ask.  But,  whatever  it  is, 
Dana  feels  at  liberty  to  marry  on  it.  With  what 
there  is  of  Mother's  settled  on  me  we  should 
have  enough  without  depending  on  Father, 
it  seems;  and  Dana  thinks  I  ought  to  love  him 
enough  to  be  willing  to  live  somehow,  if  not  as 
I  am  used  to  living  —  and  so  on.  I  did  not  tell 
him  that  I  would  be  willing  to  live  anyhow — 
I  don't  think  that  at  all  necessary.  I  did  not 
say  how  little  I  think  about  money,  and 
things  like  that :  he  knows.  I  did  not  say  that 
I  could  starve  and  be  quite  happy.  I  said  that 
I  did  not  wish  to  be  married. 

August  the  fourteenth. 

HE  says  that  does  not  make  any  difference.  He 
says  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  subject. 


84       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

August  the  fifteenth. 

I  HAVE  told  him  that  if  he  wants  to  be  married 
in  October  he  must  find  some  other  girl  to  marry 
him.  We  have  had  our  first  quarrel.  He  is 
hurt  and  unhappy,  and  has  gone  to  town.  I 
cannot  see  why  I  need  feel  called  upon  to  miss 
him  quite  so  much  —  not  so  preposterously.  I 
should  not  mind  if  I  missed  him  only  to  a  reason- 
able extent.  He  has  telephoned  that  he  is  not 
coming  out  to-night.  James  answered  the  tele- 
phone. I  was  out  watching  Job  catch  grass- 
hoppers, an  exhilarating,  not  to  say  exalted,  oc- 
cupation. It  was  wet,  too,  and  I  came  in  too 
soppy  and  moppy  for  anything.  There  is  a  fog 
to-day.  It  wipes  out  the  world  as  if  it  were  a 
vast  sponge.  Happiness,  I  think,  is  only  a  little 
white  writing  on  a  slate :  it  looks  as  if  it  would 
last  forever,  but  it  is  only  chalk ;  the  first  touch 
expunges  it.  My  slate  is  gone  suddenly  blank 
and  black. 

Two  of  our  old  fishermen  are  putting  out  in 
their  old  dories  from  the  beach.  They  melt  into 
the  fog  like  thoughts.  There !  they  are  gone 
out  utterly.  They  are  so  old  that  I  cannot  even 
wonder  how  they  feel.  Age  seems  to  me  like  a 
mighty  mist  into  which  people  dip  and  vanish 
slowly,  and  between  them  and  the  sympathy  of 
youth  an  unfathomable  fog  shuts  in.  I  stand 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       85 

before  the  mist  of  years.  What  does  it  hold  for 
or  withhold  from  me  *?  Dana  and  I  seem  like 
frail  boats,  feeling  our  way  into  a  dim  destiny. 
My  love  stretches  beyond  his  longing,  a  myste- 
rious sea.  Shall  I  ever  be  old  —  and  he  ?  And 
will  love  mature  as  far  as  life  does  ?  If  it  did 
not,  if  it  does  not,  better  that  it  be  and  remain 
forever  young,  a  mist-ideal  in  a  blur  of  morning 
light. 

rfwo  hours  later. 

INTO  the  record  of  these  admirable  and  doubtless 
noble  sentiments  a  sound  cut  sharply.  It  was 
Job  barking  the  one  particular  individual  bark 
which  he  reserves,  out  of  the  variety  of  his 
nature,  for  Dana  Herwin  —  a  chromatic  bark 
of  modulated  love  and  jealousy,  of  welcome 
and  of  distrust.  I  ran  down.  He  stood  in 
the  green-and-white  hall.  No  person  besides 
ourselves  was  there.  When  he  touched  me, — 
for  he  took  me  to  his  heart  as  if  he  never  meant 
to  let  me  go, —  Job  growled,  and  then  he 
cried  like  a  hurt  child,  and  crawled  under  the 
sofa  and  sobbed.  I  never  knew  anybody  sob 
like  Job. 

And  Mr.  Herwin  did  not  say  a  word  about 
marrying  in  October.  I  think  he  has  forgotten 
all  about  it.  I  am  quite  happy. 


86      CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  MY  DEAR  DANA  :  But  I  thought  you  had 
got  over  that.  How  can,  how  can  you  bring  it  all 
up  again"?  Yes,  I  know  I  was  very  happy  last 
evening,  and  I  did  n't  much  mind  your  knowing 
it.  So  I  said,  and  so  I  did,  as  you  say.  But  that 
did  not  mean  that  I  am  ready  to  be  your  wife. 
It  is  so  hard  for  a  man  to  understand  a  woman  — 
it  is  so  hard  for  you  to  understand  me  —  that  I 
do  not  think  I  ought  ever  to  be  your  wife  at  all. 
I  am  convinced  we  should  make  each  other  very 
unhappy.  As  to  marrying  you  in  October,  pray 
regard  that  point  as  irrevocably  settled.  I  can- 
not consider  the  question  for  a  moment.  All 
the  battle  blood  of  my  tribe  is  surging  behind 
me,  and  I  am 

"Your 

"  WILDERNESS  GIRL." 

"On,  I  love  you  —  yes.  I  have  said  it.  I 
cannot  unsay  it.  I  cannot  unlove,  and  that  is 
the  pitiful  part  of  it.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
your  wife  in  October.  You  would  carry  no 
willing  captive  to  your  wedding-day." 

"  I  NEVER  knew  a  person  with  such  a  relentless 
will.  I  should  think,  if  you  loved  me  as  you 
profess  to  do,  you  would  have  some  compassion 
on  me." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE       87 

"  HAVE  it  your  own  way,  then,  if  you  must. 
Now  you  have  got  Father  on  your  side  I  am 
perfectly  discouraged.  I  am  worn  out  with  this 
conflict.  I  don't  care  whether  I  marry  you  this 
year  or  next,  or  in  October,  or  in  April,  or  now, 
or  never.  I  am  tired  out.  I  am  tired  of  the 
whole  subject.  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I 
yield  out  of  sheer  exhaustion. 

"  Take  me  up,  fling  me  over  your  shoulder, 
carry  me  away  to  your  own  tribe,  then,  if  you 
insist  upon  it  —  and  start  all  the  elements  of  my 
nature  that  are  incomprehensible  to  you  into 
war." 

"  MY  DEAR  DANA  :  Oh,  I  don't  care  what  you 
give  me.  Why  should  you  give  me  anything 
at  all  ?  That  seems  to  me  a  foolish  custom.  I 
will  not  be  a  bride  fettered  with  pearls  and  dia- 
monds, and  flaunting  her  chains  before  gods  and 
men.  I  will  have  nothing  from  you  but  my 
wedding-ring.  I  suppose  I  can't  decently  refuse 
that.  I  think  I  have  told  you  before  —  I  don't 
care  when.  If  it  has  got  to  be  at  all,  one  time  is 
as  good  as  another." 

"  YES,  oh,  yes ;  I  don't  care.  The  last  week 
of  September  is  no  worse  than  the  first  week  of 
October,  that  I  can  see.  You  and  Father  must 


88       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

arrange  it  between  you.     Really,  I  don't  care  to 
be  bothered  with  these  details. 

"  The  only  thing  I  insist  on  is  that  you  shall 
find  some  suitable  person  to  stay  with  Father,  if 
you  are  going  to  turn  him  out  of '  his  own  hired 
house '  (as  Longfellow  used  to  call  it)  and  send 
him  back  home  alone,  and  keep  me  here  with- 
out him.  I  warn  you  frankly:  if  you  find  me 
vanished  any  evening,  you  need  not  be  surprised. 
As  it  looks  to  me  now,  the  station  is  abnormally 
convenient,  and,  in  fact,  if  I  did  n't  know  that  I 
could  melt  away  from  you  any  time,  I  do  not 
think,  in  fact  I  am  quite  sure,  I  could  not 
possibly  make  up  my  mind  to  stay  alone  in  the 
Dowe  Cottage  with  you. 

"  Who  ever  invented  the  word  '  honeymoon '  *? 
Some  man,  I  am  sure.  He  never  tasted  myrrh  in 
it.  There  is  nothing  in  this  world  I  find  it  so 
hard  to  understand  as  the  nature  of  a  man.  The 
mysteries  of  sin,  suffering,  and  immortality  are 
quite  frank  and  open  beside  it. 

"  I  am  sorry  if  you  are  disappointed  that  I  do 
not  write  love-letters  to  you  in  these  days.  Pray, 
what  did  you  expect?  I  am  dumb,  and  thou 
didst  it.  MARNA." 

"  September  the  third. 

"  MY  DEAR  DANA  :  Certainly  we  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you  whenever  you  come  out.  I  quite 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       89 

think  it  best  that  you  should  be  somewhere  else, 
and  rather  come  out,  than  stay  out,  just  now. 
Probably  we  shall  see  enough  of  each  other  after 
the  twentieth.  Yours, 

"MARNA  TRENT. 


"  P.S.  Oh,  forgive  me  !  I  do  not  mean  to  be 
cruel.  I  do  not  feel  cruel.  It  seems  to  me  as  if 
you  were  the  cruel  one  of  us  two.  It  would  have 
been  so  easy  to  go  on  as  we  were,  betrothed  and 
blessed.  We  could  have  lived  so  for  a  long, 
long  time,  and  been  quite  happy.  I  cannot  see 
why  you  were  not  contented.  I  was.  Paradise 
'  was  paradise  enow '  for  me." 

September  the  twelfth. 

I  HAVE  not  seen  Dana  for  a  week.  I  suppose  it 
was  rather  uncivil  of  me,  but  I  wrote  him  not  to 
come.  I  find  it  impossible  to  entertain  him  in 
these  days.  He  seems  to  me  like  company. 
Father  and  Job  and  I  are  happier  by  ourselves. 
I  must  admit  it  is  celestial  weather.  The  ocean 
blinds  me  and  the  breakers  deafen  me.  There 
always  is  something  about  September  sunshine, 
but  this  September  sunshine  has  the  divine  na- 
ture. It  is  working  an  awful  miracle.  I  dare 
not  think  of  it !  Yet,  in  truth,  I  think  of  nothing 
else. 


go       CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

"  September  the  fourteenth. 

"  To  INA  IN  HEAVEN  :  Ina !  Ina  !  Here  we 
come  to  the  parting  of  the  ways  between  spirit 
and  flesh ;  girl  ghost  and  live  wife,  how  can  we 
stay  together,  or  be  ever  to  each  other  what  we 
were  ?  You  —  you  would  have  been  my  brides- 
maid, Dear;  you  would  have  worn,  I  think,  a 
robin's-egg-blue  silk  mull.  How  dainty  you 
would  have  been !  I  am  not  to  have  any  brides- 
maid, Ina.  No  one  shall  take  your  place.  I 
don't  care  for  any  wedding;  it  is  all  to  be  by 
ourselves,  at  home;  we  are  going  over  the  day 
before  —  a  very  still  little  wedding,  only  a  few 
people;  and  Father  stays,  but  Dana  and  I,  and 
Job,  are  coming  back  to  the  Wave.  Ina,  I  am 
not  glad,  oh,  I  am  not  glad !  Ina !  In  all  this 
world  of  live  people  nobody  understands 

"  Your  poor  MARNA." 

"  September  the  sixteenth. 

"DEAR  DANA:  Leave  me  alone.  Oh,  leave 
me  to  my  own  nature  for  these  last  days  and 
hours !  What  it  is  not  in  yours  to  comprehend 
let  it  be  yours  to  reverence.  I  stand  apart  from 
you,  and  you  seem  to  me  a  vast  space  away  from 
me,  like  an  alien  king  of  an  unseen  country  who 
has  threatened  me  and  mine.  Though  I  make 
you  unhappy,  I  must  speak  the  truth  to  you,  for 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       91 

Truth  is  the  king  of  kings,  and  outranks  your 
throne  or  mine,  or  that  on  which  we  are  fated  to 
sit  crowned  together.  You  ask  me  do  I  not  love 
you  as  I  thought  I  did,  that  I  treat  you  as  I 
choose  to  do,  in  this  miracle  September? 

"  On  my  soul,  I  cannot  answer  you,  for  from 
my  soul  I  do  not  know.  I  thought  I  loved 
you ;  and  I  was  happy  when  you  were  near  me. 
Now  I  know  not  if  I  love  you ;  I  only  know 
I  fear  you,  and  I  wish  the  width  of  the  spaces 
between  the  stars  and  suns  were  distance  be- 
tween us. 

"  I  feel  a  magic  circle  drawn  around  me.  If 
you  cross,  you  cross  it  at  your  peril,  for,  volun- 
tary sorcerer,  I  stand  within  it.  I  have  nothing 
for  you  —  nothing;  I  belong  to  myself.  I  have 
fled  to  the  wilderness  of  Womanhood,  where  no 
man  ever  sets  his  foot.  If  you  pursue  me,  I  can- 
not say  what  I  shall  do.  I  warn  you !  I  warn 
you  !  It  is  nothing  to  me,  and  less  than  nothing, 
what  other  girls  do  the  days  before  they  are  mar- 
ried to  other  men.  I  told  you  I  was  a  Wilder- 
ness Girl;  and  now  you  find  it  out,  you  are 
surprised  and  shocked.  I  would  have  you  know, 
sir,  that  a  woman  is  to  be  obeyed  when  she 
makes  her  will  known  to  the  man  who  loves  her. 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  love  you  enough  to  marry 
you.  And,  honestly,  it  does  not  trouble  me  that 


92       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

I  give  you  pain.  I  tell  you,  Dana  Herwin  — 
oh,  but  I  cannot  tell,  I  cannot  tell  you !  You 
would  not  understand." 

"  September  the  seventeenth. 

"  MOTHER,  I  am  not  fit  to  be  married,  I  am 
behaving  so  badly!  If  you  were  not  a  ghost,  I 
think  I  should  be  a  better  girl — I  should  act 
like  other  girls.  And  you  would  teach  me  how. 
Mother,  it  is  the  holy  truth  that  I  packed  my 
bag  to-night  and  ran  away.  I  took  the  train 
and  went  to  town, —  the  late  train, —  and  I 
meant  to  send  him  word  that  I  would  not  marry 
anybody,  for  I  could  never  do  it. 

"  And  when  I  got  to  town  I  was  frightened  at 
what  I  had  done,  for  I  thought  it  would  trouble 
Father,  and  I  came  back  again  upon  the  mid- 
night train  alone ;  and  it  rained,  for  there  is  a 
southeaster,  and  I  got  off  at  the  station,  crying, 
in  the  wet.  And,  oh,  Mother,  there  he  stood  — 
the  Man !  His  face  was  white,  and  his  hand 
shook,  and  he  did  not  speak  at  all.  He  took  me 
home,  and  in  at  the  side  door,  and  called 
Maggie,  and  told  me  to  go  up-stairs,  and  did  not 
trouble  me  to  try  to  kiss  me ;  but  he  had  such  a 
look  that  I  felt  ashamed,  and  I  thought  you 
would  be  ashamed  of  me,  Mother.  So  I  confess 
to  you.  For  I  have  promised  that  I  will  marry 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE       93 

him   in  two  days  and  three  nights  more.     And 
I  am 

"  Your  unmothered  and  bewildered 

"  DAUGHTER." 

"  September  the  nineteenth. 

"  D/AR  DANA  :  I  cannot  possibly  see  you  this 
evening.  You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure.  I 
have  some  writing  to  do,  and,  besides,  I  don't 
feel  like  it.  Can't  you  go  and  call  on  Minnie 
Curtis  *?  I  should  think  she  might  amuse  you. 
"  Hurriedly  yours, 

"  MARK  A  TRENT." 

"  October  the  fifth. 

"To  MY  HUSBAND:  Oh,  I  admit  it!  I  take 
the  first  excuse  I  have  to  write  the  word.  You 
have  never  given  me  a  chance  before.  I  do  not 
think  we  have  been  apart  three  hours  —  have 
we  ? —  in  these  fifteen  days.  Now  you  are  to  be 
three  hours  in  town.  It  seems  a  long  time. 
Twenty  minutes  are  gone.  I  have  been  sitting 
here,  in  the  rose-colored  room,  staring  at  the 
clock.  I  have  been  trying  to  decide  where  I 
shall  put  this  note  to  surprise  and  please  you. 
Dear,  I  like  to  please  you!  But,  indeed,  I  do 
not  always  know  how  to  make  you  believe  that 
I  do.  You  are  very  patient  and  gentle  with  me, 
and  I  —  I  love  you  ! 


94       CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

"  I  think  I  will  pin  it  on  your  cushion  with 
one  of  the  pearl  butterflies  I  wore  to  fasten  my 
wedding  lace.  I  was  glad  you  noticed  the  but- 
terflies. I  am  glad  you  liked  the  way  I  looked. 
This  is  part  of  the  miracle.  I  begin  to  care  so 
much  —  too  much  —  for  what  you  like.  But 
now  that  I  try  to  tell  you  so,  I  find  that  words 
flit  away  from  me  like  butterflies  —  no,  no !  not 
that.  Rather  are  my  words  moths,  and  they 
advance  and  retreat,  and  circle  and  waver  about 
the  light  of  my  love  for  you,  and  dash  them 
headlong,  and  perish  in  it.  For  my  love  is  like 
a  tall,  strong  candle  on  an  altar;  it  burns  steadily 
and  sacredly  before  the  holy  of  holies.  I  know 
that  I  have  but  begun  to  love  you.  I  know 
that  I  shall  love  you  more  —  I  fear  to  know  how 
I  shall  love  you ! 

"For  I  am 

"YouR  WIFE." 

tfhe  Second  Note. 

"DARLING:  Will  you  mind  two  notes  from 
me  ?  I  cannot  seem  to  find  any  other  way  of 
enduring  this  separation.  I  will  slip  this  one 
under  your  pillow,  so  you  will  find  it  later  than 
the  pin-cushion  one.  See !  I  put  one  of  the 
roses  you  brought  me  last  night  within  the  note. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       95 

I  liked  the  rose ;  it  is  just  the  color  of  this  room. 
I  am  writing  to  tell  you  that  I  lose  myself  with- 
out you.  I  never  knew  three  such  hours  in  my 
life.  I  have  stared  the  clock  out  of  countenance: 
only  eighty-five  minutes  are  gone  yet.  I  cannot 
understand  myself;  I  am  quite  perplexed.  Thou 
strong  and  tender !  Come  quickly  and  explain 
me  to  myself! 

"  Thou  dear  Love  !  My  love  waits  to  learn 
the  way  of  loving  from  thine  own ;  a  bud  that 
shall  know  an  eternal  blossom,  a  story  that  shall 
be  read  without  an  end.  I  tried  to  tell  you  so 
last  evening;  I  could  not  do  it. 

"  The  sea  is  white  and  still  this  morning. 
The  fishermen  are  singing  at  their  nets.  Fires 
are  on  all  the  hearths ;  the  sun  is  warm  and  deep. 
I  thought  September  was  the  bridal  month. 
Now  I  see  it  is  October.  Then  I  think  we  shall 
know  it  is  November.  Eden  waits  in  every 
weather.  All  down  the  calendar, 

I  see  Joy  smiling. 

"  Dear,  I  cannot  tell  you  unless  I  write  it,  and 
I  feel  that  I  must  tell  you,  for  I  owe  it  to  your 
patience  and  gentleness  to  tell  you  what  a  foolish, 
petulant  girl  she  was  —  that  Wilderness  Girl. 
I  whisper  you  a  secret.  She  will  not  trouble  you 


96       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

any  more.     She  has  floated  out  upon  the  tide 
of  love, 

Beyond  the  utmost  purple  rim. 

The  forest  gave  her,  but  the  ocean  claims  her  ; 
she  is  gone  forever.     And  I  am 

"  MARNA,  your  Wife." 


Note. 


"  OH,  teach  me  how  to  make  you  happy  ! 
I  have  everything  to  learn,  I  know.  But  believe 
me  that  I  care  for  nothing  else  —  for  nothing  in 
this  world  except  your  happiness.  I  will  be  the 
most  docile  and  the  gladdest  scholar  that  man 
ever  had. 

"  See,  I  have  almost  written  this  first  separa- 
tion away.  I  will  confess:  if  I  had  not  written, 
I  should  have  cried.  Oh,  you  will  be  home  in 
half  an  hour  ! 

"  Don't  be  jealous,  but  I  just  went  up  and 
kissed  the  clock. 

"  MARNA,  Wife." 


Ill 


November  the  third. 

f  •  AHERE  is  no  doubt  about  it  that  happiness 
A  is  an  occupation.  When  I  see  how  long 
it  is  since  I  have  added  anything  worth  adding 
to  the  Accepted  Manuscript,  and  when  I  try  to 
define  to  myself  what  it  is  that  gives  me  such  a 
sense  of  being  busy  all  the  time,  I  find  that  it  is 
scarcely  more  than  the  existence  of  joy.  What 
I  have  lost  is  the  leisure  of  loneliness;  what  I 
have  gained  is  the  avocation  of  love. 

They  teach  us  that  only  in  heaven  can  we  ex- 
pect to  know  happiness.  It  is  not  true  !  I  sum- 
mon mine  —  a  singing  witness  in  the  courts  of 
life.  I  fling  down  the  glove  of  joy,  a  challenge 
to  such  dismal  doctrine.  There  are  whole  weeks 
when  I  live  in  poems,  I  breathe  in  song.  There 
are  entire  days  when  I  float  in  color,  and  seem 
to  be  set  free  in  space,  as  a  bird  is,  knowing  the 
earth  and  loving  it,  but  citizen  of  the  skies  and 
homing  to  them.  I  fall  asleep  as  if  I  were  a 
sunset,  and  I  wake  as  if  I  were  a  sunrise,  so  near 

97 


98       CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

am  I  to  Nature,  so  much  a  part  of  her  beatitude. 
Nature  is  joy  —  I  perceive  that  now.  I  used  to 
think  she  was  duty.  How  wonderful  it  is  to  live 
in  harmony  with  her,  out  of  sheer  joyousness  — 
not  conscript,  but  volunteer  within  her  mighty 
and  beautiful  forces! 

I  am  always  reading  new  chapters  in  the  Story 
Without  an  End.  Every  day  I  turn  a  fresh  page 
in  the  book  of  love.  I  did  not  think  that  it 
would  be  so  absorbing.  Really,  it  has  plot. 
For,  what  is  the  plot  of  incident  beside  that  of 
feeling  *?  A  tame  affair,  as  thoroughly  displaced 
as  a  piece  of  sensational  fiction  by  the  great  drama 
of  the  gospels. 

Dana  and  I  have  been  reading  the  New  Testa- 
ment together  on  Sunday  evenings.  He  said 
yesterday:  "  What  a  complete  situation!"  From 
a  histrionic  point  of  view  he  thinks  the  life  of 
Christ  the  most  tremendous  and  well-balanced 
plot  ever  conceived.  He  admitted  that  he  had 
forgotten  how  fine  it  was. 

"  Morally  fine,  at  least,"  I  said. 

"Morally  fine,  at  most,;  spiritually,  if  you 
will,"  he  answered.  He  spoke  quite  soberly  for 
Dana.  He  is  a  very  merry  person;  he  laughs 
more  easily  and  more  often  than  I  do.  I  am 
afraid,  sometimes,  he  thinks  me  too  strenuous. 
(He  said  so  one  day,  but  I  felt  so  badly  that  he 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE       99 

kissed  the  word  savagely  away.)  He  is  not  at 
all  religious.  Why  does  this  make  me  feel  as  if 
I  ought  to  become  so  *?  I  have  never  thought 
much  about  the  philosophy  of  Christianity — I 
mean  as  a  practical  matter  that  had  anything  in 
particular  to  do  with  myself — until  lately. 

"  You  are  a  sumptuous  little  pagan,"  he  said  to 
me  Saturday.  Now,  this  did  not  please  me,  as 
he  seemed  to  expect.  It  left  a  little  dust,  like 
ashes  of  roses,  in  my  heart.  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
failed  him  somewhere. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  too  happy  to  be  religious," 
I  said. 

"  Then  stay  irreligious !  "  he  cried.  The  plea 
of  his  lips  smothered  that  spark  of  sacred  feeling ; 
and  against  the  argument  of  his  arms  I  cannot 
reason. 

How  fearful  is  the  philosophy  of  a  kiss ! 
When  I  think  of  poor  girls  —  young,  ignorant, 
all  woman  and  all  love  —  I  never  thought  of 
them  before  except  with  a  kind  of  bewildered 
horror. 

I  wonder  —  to  anchor  to  my  thought;  see, 
even  my  thought  casts  off  its  moorings  as  well 
as  my  feeling;  I  seem  to  be  adrift  on  all  sides 
of  my  being  —  I  wonder  if  it  is  in  the  nature  of 
suffering  to  make  people  in  so  far  divine  as  it  is 
in  that  of  joy  to  keep  them  altogether  human. 


ioo     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

I  begin  to  see  that  there  is  a  conflict  as  old  as  the 
axis  of  the  world.  Around  its  fixed  and  invisible 
bar  every  soul  of  us  revolves  —  so  many  revolu- 
tions to  an  ecstasy,  so  many  to  a  pang;  and  the 
sum  and  nature  of  these  revolutions  is  the  sum 
and  nature  of  ourselves.  When  I  am  old  and 
sad,  shall  I  turn  penitent  and  think  about 
heaven*?  Oh,  I  am  young,  I  am  glad,  I  am 
beloved,  and  I  love !  Earth  is  enough  for  me, 
for  he  is  in  it. 

IT  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  put  into  words 
the  quality  of  his  consideration  for  me.  It  is 
something  ineffable  and  not  to  be  desecrated  by 
expression.  It  is  my  atmosphere.  His  treat- 
ment of  me  is  the  very  devoutness  of  love.  I 
breathe  a  devotion  for  which  any  tender  woman 
in  the  world  would  die.  Though  I  am  wife, 
thus  am  I  goddess,  for  he  deifies  me. 

But  while  his  soul  looks  up  to  mine 
My  heart  lies  at  his  feet. 

The  difference  is  that  now  I  am  willing  he  should 
know  when  he  has  my  heart  at  his  feet.  Once 
I  kept  the  secret  to  myself,  and  confided  it  only 
to  this  dumb  paper.  There  are  some  delicate 
lines  in  the  poem  when  Radha  and  Krishna  were 
married  —  the  one  that  begins : 

But  when  the  music  of  her  bangles  passed  the  porch  — 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      101 

November  the  seventh. 

MRS.  GRAY  talked  to  me  a  little  last  week. 
She  said :  "  My  dear,  your  mother  kept  your 
father  at  her  feet.  She  held  him  there  to  the 
last  breath.  I  tell  you  a  secret,  since  she  cannot. 
The  happiest  marriages  are  those  where  a  wife 
loves  her  husband  less  than  he  loves  her." 

"  How  many  such  do  you  know  ? "  I  asked 
her,  rather  hotly,  for  my  cheeks  burned. 

She  gave  me  a  keen  look. 

"  You  have  more  knowledge  of  the  world 
than  I  supposed,"  she  answered  slowly,  and  I 
thought  she  sighed. 

"  Would  you  have  a  woman  coquet  with  her 
husband  ?  "  I  demanded.  "  Is  marriage  an  in- 
trigue or  a  sacrament1?  You  don't  know  my 
husband  !  "  I  cried  —  proudly,  I  suppose,  for  I 
was  touched  a  little. 

"  There,  there !  Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Gray, 
as  if  I  had  been  a  pouting  child.  She  began  to 
talk  about  Robert  Hazelton's  wedding-present. 
It  is  a  very  odd  present.  Nobody  quite  un- 
derstands it.  It  is  just  a  gold  candlestick  made 
in  the  shape  of  a  compass,  with  the  candle  set  at 
one  side  as  you  see  them,  Dana  says,  on  real 
compasses.  Within  is  the  needle,  a  black  point 
upon  a  white  enameled  dial,  pointing  to  the 
north.  I  cannot  help  liking  it ;  it  is  so  like  Rob. 
Dana  asked  me  if  it  were  meant  to  convey  the 


102     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

fidelity  of  superfluous  affection,  and  I  could  not 
help  laughing,  it  was  so  like  Dana.  Yet,  when 
I  had  laughed,  I  was  a  little  sorry.  Robert  has 
always  thought  me  a  much  better  woman  than  I 
am,  poor  fellow !  Dana  invited  him  to  dinner 
once,  but  he  went  away  early  to  see  some  pa- 
tients. I  believe  he  has  an  excellent  practice. 
I  wish  he  would  marry  Minnie  Curtis. 

I  am  writing  somehow  pettily  this  evening.  I 
don't  know  why.  My  soul  seems  shriveled  a 
little.  Dana  is  dining  out  with  some  gentlemen : 
I  believe  it  has  something  to  do  with  politics. 
It  is  the  first  time.  I  would  not  have  believed 
that  I  could  be  so  ridiculous  about  it.  I  have 
devoted  myself  to  Father  the  whole  evening, 
but  the  more  devoted  I  was  the  worse  it  grew. 

It  seemed  to  me  all  the  while  as  if  the  sky 
were  put  out,  and  the  earth  had  stopped,  and 
Dana  were  dead.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  there 
never  had  been  any  Dana,  and  never  would  be 
or  could  be.  Father  was  so  pleased  with  having 
me  to  himself  again  that  it  was  quite  touching. 
He  even  called  Job,  and  told  him  to  stand  on 
his  head;  and  nothing  could  be  more  pathetic, 
for  Father  is  not  one  of  the  dog  people.  He  is 
polite  to  Job,  for  he  recognizes  that  Job  is  a 
gentleman,  too ;  but  he  has  never  loved  him.  On 
Job's  part  it  is  a  wholly  unrequited  attachment. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE     103 

But  for  me,  I  could  have  cried  all  the  evening. 
And  Job  would  not  stand  on  his  head;  he  has 
forgotten  how. 

He  is  up  here  with  me  now,  just  as  he  used 
to  be,  quite  by  ourselves.  Poor  Job !  He  kisses 
me  as  if  he  had  not  seen  me  for  six  months  — 
not  obtrusively,  but  with  a  shy  rapture  of  which 
no  being  but  a  dog  is  capable.  He  does  not 
get  used  to  sleeping  in  the  bath-room,  but  Dana 
prefers  to  have  him  there.  He  says  if  we  cannot 
have  a  home  to  ourselves,  at  least  we  can  have 
our  own  rooms  as  he  likes  them,  which  is  per- 
fectly reasonable  in  Dana.  I  find  he  is  always 
reasonable  when  he  has  his  preferences  con- 
sulted. I  hope  Job  will  overcome  that  air  of 
settled  melancholy  which  he  wears  whenever  he 
regards  my  husband.  It  cannot  be  denied  that 
he  never  "  meets  him  with  a  smile."  Sometimes 
I  think  this  vexes  Dana.  I  used  to  think  he 
loved  Job  as  much  as  I  did. 

Dana  is  very  late.  It  is  more  than  half-past 
ten.  I  admit  I  am  rather  tired  of  petting  Job. 
This  occupation  does  not  seem  as  absorbing  as 
it  used  to  be.  I  cannot  read, —  I  have  tried, 
but  I  listen  so  that  I  understand  nothing  I  read. 
I  hear  his  footsteps  on  the  concrete  walk,  past 
the  electric  light  in  the  street,  whose  cool,  fair 
light  falls  into  our  room  and  across  it  when  the 


104    CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

gas  is  out.  (Dana  likes  that  light  as  much  as  I 
do ;  it  was  a  delight  to  me  to  find  that  he  under- 
stands the  way  I  have  always  felt  about  it.) 

As  I  sit  here  alone  I  hear  him  and  I  hear  him, 
but  they  are  not  his  footsteps  at  all,  only  the 
footsteps  of  my  heart.  I  have  seen  a  picture  of 
"  Eurydice  Listening,"  and  her  body  was  curved 
a  little  like  an  ear. 

It  is  as  if  I  had  become  an  ear  —  heart  and 
body ;  I  seem  to  hear  with  my  forehead  and  my 
hair.  A  lifelong  invalid  told  me  once  that  she 
heard  with  her  cheeks. 

It  is  eleven  o'clock.  Job  barks  in  his  dreams 
of  the  grasshoppers  at  Sanchester;  he  has  dis- 
tinctly a  grasshopper  bark.  I  know  politics  stay 
out  late  nights,  but  I  did  not  know  Dana  meant 
to  go  into  politics.  He  told  me  to  go  to  sleep. 
Men  say  such  singular  things  to  women. 

Job  is  asleep  on  my  lounging-gown;  I  hate  to 
move  him.  I  did  not  have  a  new  one,  for  I  'm 
fond  of  this ;  but  Maggie  trimmed  it  up  for  me 
very  daintily  with  yards  of  fresh  chantilly.  Dana 
likes  me  in  this  gown.  He  likes  the  lace,  and 
he  likes  the  color.  He  says  it  is  the  shade  of  my 
ruby.  I  think  that  must  be  Dana  this  time.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  caller  coming  away  from  the  Curtises'. 
Perhaps  by  the  time  I  get  into  the  gown,  and  get 
my  hair  brushed  and  braided,  and  warm  my  red 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     105 

slippers,  and  fix  his  candle  and  all  his  little  things 
the  way  he  likes,  he  will  be  here. 

I  have  put  fresh  wood  on  the  fire,  for  it  is 
quite  a  cold  night.  The  blaze  springs,  as  if  it 
laughed.  Crossing  before  the  pier-glass  just  now, 
I  was  half  startled  at  the  figure  I  saw  there  — 
tall,  all  that  lace  and  velvet,  and  all  that  color, 
and  curved  a  little,  like  Eurydice  —  bent  so,  just 
an  ear. 

I  wonder  if  Orpheus  was  in  politics? 

The  leaping  fire  flares  upon  my  ruby ;  deep, 
deep,  without  a  flaw,  guardian  and  glad  above 
my  wedding-ring.  I  think  a  ruby  has  never  been 
quite  understood.  I  see  now  —  of  all  the  jewels 
God  created  one  for  women.  A  ruby  is  the 
heart  of  a  wife. 

Oh,  there !  After  all !  He  is  striding  up  the 
avenue.  How  he  swings  along !  As  if  he  had 
the  world  beneath  his  ringing  feet. 

I  will  not  run  down.  I  will  make  believe  that 
I  am  asleep,  or  not  pleased  that  he  was  out  so 
late.  And  when  he  gets  to  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
and  as  far  as  the  door  — 

"  DEAR  LOVE  :  Was  I  cross  with  you  to-day 
about  your  golf-stockings'?  Believe,  I  did  not 
mean  to  be.  I  have  had  a  hard  headache,  and 
the  sore  throat,  ever  since  we  went  in  town  to 


106     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

the  Grays'  in  the  storm,  and  I  wore  the  lace 
dress  because  you  like  it ;  but  it  was  pretty  thin. 
And  I  had  darned  the  stockings  myself, —  I 
would  not  leave  them  to  Maggie, —  and  I  was 
so  sure  I  had  filled  every  single  cavity !  What 
a  poor  dentist  I  should  make  !  See,  I  am  trying 
to  laugh.  But,  really,  I  have  cried.  It  is  the 
first  time  you  have  ever  spoken  so  to  me,  Darling. 
No  woman  ever  forgets  the  first  time  that  the 
man  she  loves  speaks  sharply  to  her :  of  that  I 
am  sure.  Everything  else  would  go  out  of  her 
consciousness  first. 

"  I  was  so  afraid  I  should  cry  on  the  spot,  and 
that  would  have  shamed  me  before  you  and  to 
myself,  for  I  don't  like  people  to  see  me  cry. 
And  I  think  it  was  because  I  tried  so  hard  not 
to  cry  that  I  '  answered  back '  a  little. 

"Dear,  I  am  sorry.  I  was  wrong.  Forgive 
me,  my  own !  Love  never  needs  to  answer  back ; 
it  is  too  great  to  be  so  small.  Silence  would  be 
the  nobler  way.  It  is,  I  think,  the  stronger 
weapon.  But  there  need  be  no  weapons,  God 
be  thanked  !  between  yourself  and 

"MARNA,  your  Wife. 

"  P.S.  I  have  been  all  over  them  —  the  brown 
ones,  and  the  green,  and  the  gray,  and  the  speckly 
kinds  that  are  so  hard  to  find  the  holes  in;  I 


"l    WAS    HALF    STARTLED    AT    THE    FIGURE    I    SAW    THERE. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      107 

have  worked  over  the  whole  pile  for  a  long  while, 
to  be  sure  there  are  none  of  those  tiny  places  the 
barbed-wire  fence  bites  between  the  pattern.  I 
hope  you  will  not  find  me  so  careless  and  stupid 
again.  I  am  not  much  used  to  mending  stock- 
ings. Maggie  has  always  done  it  for  Father. 
But  I  will  see  to  yours,  if  you  wish  me  to;  of 
course  I  will.  One  day  you  said  so, —  had  you 
forgotten"? — 'Marna,  I  wish  you  would  mend 
my  clothes  yourself.  I  have  always  thought 
how  nice  it  would  be  to  have  my  wife  do  such 
things  for  me.'  So  I  tried.  Dear,  I  am  more 
than  willing  to  please  you  about  these  little 
things.  I  care  for  nothing  else  but  to  please  you. 
My  heart  leans  to  you  all  the  time.  Waking 
and  sleeping  I  dream,  and  all  my  dreams  are 
yours.  All  my  being  has  become  a  student  in 
the  science  of  love ;  and  all  my  art  is  to  learn 
how  skilfully  to  make  you  happy.  Your  frown 
is  my  exile.  Your  smile  is  my  Eden.  Your 
arms  are  my  heaven.  Once,  ah,  once  I  was  — 
who  could  believe  it  now?— -your  Wilderness 
Girl.  Now,  your  happy  captive,  I  kiss  my  chains. 
Hold  them  lightly,  Love,  for  I  wear  them  so 
heavily !  Yet  lock  them ;  I  shall  but  love  you 
more.  Do  you  remember  the  day  I  told  you  to 
throw  the  key  away  ? 

"Oh,  but  you  took  me  from  my  tribe,  you 


io8     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

Son  of  Battle !  You  hurled  me  over  your 
shoulder  and  ran.  Do  you  know  how  Father 
misses  me,  though  we  are  in  the  very  one  self- 
same house"?  You  have  torn  me  from  him, 
from  my  own  life,  from  myself.  From  a  depth 
that  you  knew  not,  you  drew  me,  and  you  slew 
me ;  for  I  tell  you  in  a  love  like  mine  is  a  being 
slain.  To  a  depth  that  I  know  not,  you  drag 
me.  Ah,  be  merciful  —  I  love  you  !  —  for  love's 
sake ! 

"  If  ever  the  time  should  come  when  I  could 
not  pour  out  words  like  these  upon  you,  if  ever 
the  day  should  dawn  when  I  should  be  sorry 
that  I  had  written  so  to  you,  or  that  I  had  suf- 
fered you  so  to  see  the  beating  of  my  heart,  for 
indeed  such  words  are  but  drops  of  my  heart's 
blood  —  but  I  scorn  myself  for  that  unworthy 
'  if  When  thought  moves  without  a  brain, 
when  blood  leaps  without  a  heart,  when  the 
moon  forgets  to  swim  on  summer  nights  above 
the  tree-house  where  my  lips  first  drank  your 
kiss,  then  may  I  be  sorry  that  I  have  written  as 
I  write  to-night  to  you. 

"  And  I  am  sure  you  will  never  speak  again 
as  you  did  to-day.  It  was  the  first  time,  as  it 
will  be  the  last.  I  thought  if  I  told  you,  if  I 
showed  you  how  it  slays  a  woman,  if  just  this 
once  I  should  put  by  something  in  myself  that 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      109 

stands  guard  over  my  nature  and  says, '  Do  not 
let  him  know,'  I  thought  that  perhaps  it  would 
be  worth  while.  You  might,  I  can  understand, 
you  might  hurt  me,  not  knowing.  Knowing 
that  you  did,  I  '11  swear  you  never  would,  be- 
cause you  never  could." 

December  the  third. 

DANA  has  gone  into  the  law  office  of  Mrs. 
Gray's  brother,  Mr.  Mellenway  —  J.  Harold 
Mellenway.  He  is  so  busy  that  I  see  him  only 
evenings,  and  not  always  then.  I  am  trying  to 
get  used  to  it.  Father  says  he  is  making  a  re- 
markable beginning  in  his  profession,  and  that  if 
he  sustains  his  promise  I  shall  have  reason  to  be 
proud  of  him.  Father  repeats  that  he  is  a  bril- 
liant young  man.  Dana  does  not  have  much 
time  to  devote  himself  to  Father  now.  He 
seems  to  be  whirled  along.  We  all  seem  to  be 
whirled  along  like  the  figures  in  the  Wheel  of 
Life  drawn  by  some  ancient  Oriental  people, —  I 
forget  who, —  all  ignorant  that  they  are  helpless, 
and  all  hurled  on  to  a  blind  fate. 

I  have  been  married  nearly  seven  weeks.  If 
he  came  in  some  night  and  said,  "  Marna,  do 
you  know  it  is  seven  years  ?  "  I  should  not  feel 
surprised.  It  is  as  if  I  had  never  existed  before 
I  loved  him,  and  it  is  as  if  I  had  lived  cycles 


no     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

since  I  became  his  wife.  I  have  traversed  worlds 
that  astronomy  never  knew,  and  I  am  transmuted 
into  a  being  whose  nature  I  do  not  recognize. 

Here  in  my  own  room,  where  I  have  been 
such  a  happy  and  solitary  girl,  I  see  everywhere 
the  careless,  precious  signs  of  him  —  his  slippers 
on  my  hearth,  his  necktie  tossed  upon  my  bureau, 
the  newspapers  that  he  always  flings  upon  the 
floor,  and  that  I  go  and  pick  up;  a  messenger 
from  heaven  could  not  have  convinced  me  six 
months  ago  that  I  would  ever  do  it. 

So,  upon  my  heart,  upon  my  brain,  he  flings 
the  traces  of  his  presence,  the  impress  of  his 
nature.  It  is  to  me  as  if  my  soul  were  a  nickel 
plate  on  which  is  etched  a  powerful  and  beauti- 
ful picture,  of  which  I  know  that  I  know  not  yet 
the  composition  or  the  scope,  and  though  I  love 
the  picture,  I  fear  it,  because  it  is  unfinished. 
But  he  —  he  dips  a  rosebud  in  a  rainbow,  and 
paints  him  garlands  and  Cupids,  smiling  steadily, 
so  debonair  he  is.  There  are  times  (dear  Ac- 
cepted Manuscript,  you  will  never  tell)  when  the 
lightness  of  his  heart  seems  to  me  disarranged 
from  mine  —  only  for  the  moment,  of  course,  I 
mean.  But  yet  I  love  him  for  the  rainbow  in 
him.  And  perhaps,  as  Dana  says,  there  is  a  zone 
of  twilight  in  my  soul.  A  man  does  not  like 
to  be  loved  too  solemnly;  whereas  I  think  a 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      111 

woman  builds  within  her  heart  an  altar  to  an 
unknown  god,  and  leaves  her  happiest  hour  to 
steal  away  and  worship. 

December  the  tenth. 

I  HAVE  discovered  a  new  planet:  Dana  has  a 
real  though  untrained  musical  nature.  He  has 
flitted  to  the  piano  off  and  on,  of  course,  and  I 
have  sometimes  said,  "  What  a  touch  !  "  But  he 
has  never  truly  played  for  me  before.  Last  week 
he  came  home  with  a  violin.  It  seems  he  sent 
it  somewhere  to  be  mended  a  year  ago,  and  for- 
got it  (which  is  quite  like  him) ;  and  now  that 
he  has  remembered,  I  am  half  jealous  of  the 
violin,  he  so  devotes  himself.  He  plays  with  a 
kind  of  feeling  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  define, 
unless  to  say  that  it  is  passionate,  imperious,  and 
fitful.  If  I  said  the  utter  truth  to  my  very  soul, 
perhaps  I  could  not  call  it  tender  music.  But 
why  say  ?  I  have  already  found  that  the  first 
lesson  a  wife  must  learn  is  not  to  admit  the  utter 
truth  about  her  husband  to  her  own  soul.  If  she 
mistranslates,  she  is  unhappy ;  if  she  overvalues 
him,  she  may  be  more  so.  Marriage  needs 
something  of  the  opalescent  haze  such  as  be- 
trothal breathes,  and  daily  life  goes  a  beggar  for 
the  element  of  romance.  This  vanished  some- 
thing Dana's  playing  seems  to  be  about  to  recall 
to  us.  Just  now  he  has  gone  music-mad.  From 


112     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

violin  to  piano,  and  back  to  violin,  he  sways  like 
a  mast  in  a  storm.  As  I  write  he  is  singing; 
there  are  beautiful  tones  in  his  voice,  and  tears 
are  on  my  cheeks  as  I  listen.  He  comes  to  an 
unaccountable  stop,  and  runs,  dashing  up  the 
stairs,  to  see  me. — 

I  am  staying  in  my  room  with  a  headache  and 
a  kind  of  foolish  languor.  He  is  so  kind  to  me 
that  I  could  weep  for  happiness.  What  wife  was 
ever  so  cherished  as  I  ?  Listen !  He  sings  that 
exquisite  thing  which  his  voice  seems  to  have 
created,  and  for  me.  In  point  of  fact  I  believe  it 
is  Handel's. 

Where'er  you  walk,  cool  gales  shall  fan  the  glade; 
Trees  where  you  sit  shall  crowd  into  a  shade. 

And  now  he  dashes  into  the  superb  "Bedouin 
Love-Song  "  that  he  often  chooses : 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee, 
On  my  Arab  shod  with  fire ; 

And  the  winds  are  left  behind 
In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 

I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee! 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die! 

His  voice  peals  through  the  house  like  a  trium- 
phal procession.  Even  Father  has  opened  the 
library  door  to  listen.  Job  is  lying  perfectly 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      113 

still  in  the  hall,  with  quivering  ears,  music- 
smitten,  as  delicately  organized  dogs  sometimes 
are.  The  eternal  bridegroom  rings  in  my  hus- 
band's singing  — joyous,  imperial,  master  of  the 
present  and  dauntless  of  the  future.  Oh,  I  love 
thee,  master  of  my  heart  and  of  my  life ! 

I  cannot  stand  this  any  longer.  What 's  a 
headache  *?  I  think  if  I  get  into  the  warm  red 
gown,  and  steal  down  very  softly,  and  up  behind 
him  before  he  knows  it,  and  just  put  my  arms 
about  his  neck,  with  no  sound  at  all,  and  lay  my 
cheek  to  his  (though  the  tears  are  on  it  still) — 
Oh,  hark !  How  sure  and  glad  he  is ! 

I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee! 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold ! 

December  the  twelfth. 

DANA  was  displeased  with  me  about  something 
(a  little  thing,  too  small  to  write)  to-day,  and 
went  to  his  day's  work  without  kissing  me.  It 
is  the  first  time.  I  shut  mvself  in  here  and  cried 

j 

half  the  morning.  Job's  head  is  quite  a  mop, 
for  he  tried  to  comfort  me. 

Awhile  ago  I  went  down  and  telephoned  to 


ii4     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

the    office,  for    I   could  not,  could  not,  bear  it. 
This  is  the  veracious  record  of  our  interview : 

HE  :  Oh  !  That  you,  Marna  ?  Glad  to  -hear 
from  you.  What  a  lovely  telephone  voice  you 
have  !  Well,  what  is  it? 

I :  I  have  felt  so  unhappy,  Dear,  all  the  morn- 
ing! I  thought  —  perhaps  — 

HE:  Unhappy"?     What  in  thunder  for? 

I :  Why,  of  course,  Dana,  you  know  — 

HE  :  I  have  no  more  idea  what  you  are  talk- 
ing about  than  you  have  of  the  English  common 
law.  Do  be  quick,  Marna !  I  'm  busy. 

I :  Oh,  have  you  forgotten  that  you  went  off 
without  —  without  — 

HE  :  I  went  off  without  my  handkerchief,  if 
that  's  what  you  mean. 

I :  Dana! 

HE  :  Marna!  Go  find  it,  Dear,  and  dry  the 
tears  out  of  your  voice.  I  tell  you  I  'm  busy. 
Good-by.  Oh,  by  the  way.  Don't  wait  dinner 
for  me  if  I  'm  not  home  on  time.  I  am  rushed 
to  death  to-day.  Good-by. 

I :  But,  Dana  dear  — 

HE  :  But,  Marna  dear !  Don't  bother  me. 
Good-by. 

I  am  thinking  of  an  old  French  saying :  Elk 
en  meurt  •  il  en  rit.  Once,  to  think  of  it — to  think 
of  it,  I  mean,  in  a  way  that  could  possibly  have 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     115 

any  relation  to  myself — would  have  brought 
the  blood  stinging  to  my  cheeks.  Now  it  brings 
only  the  tears  starting  to  my  eyes. 

December  the  seventeenth. 

DANA  is  obsessed  with  an  idea.  I  find  he  has  a 
good  many  ideas.  Father  was  a  little  vexed 
with  him  to-day,  and  called  them  fictions.  In 
point  of  fact,  Dana  wants  to  build  a  house,  and 
Father  thinks  it  quite  unnecessary  and  expensive. 
He  wants  Dana  to  wait  until  his  legal  income  is 
more  assured,  offering  us  till  such  time  our  pres- 
ent home  in  his  own  house.  It  is  large  enough, 
I  admit ;  we  have  our  own  suite,  and  every  com- 
fort, and  no  more  care  than  if  we  were  figures  on 
a  fresco. 

Father's  old  Ellen  looks  after  everything;  she 
has  been  in  the  house  since  I  was  a  baby,  and 
rules  the  family  like  a  Chinese  ancestor.  I  do 
not  think  of  Ellen  any  more  than  I  do  of  the 
atmosphere.  I  don't  think  I  have  ever  so  much 
as  mentioned  her  in  the  Accepted  Manuscript; 
she  is  a  matter  of  course.  I  suppose  my  life  has 
been  more  free  from  care  than  that  of  many  girls, 
especially  motherless  girls,  and  that  I  shall  have 
a  good  deal  to  learn  if  I  keep  house.  But  if 
Dana  wishes  it  I  should  not  mind  the  trouble ;  I 
should  like  to  please  Dana.  I  asked  Ellen 


u6     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

whether  she  thought  I  could  do  it  so  as  to  please 
him.  She  looked  at  me  and  did  not  say  any- 
thing, only  she  patted  me  on  the  head  with  her 
wrinkled  hand ;  I  could  n't  make  out  at  all  what 
Ellen  meant.  Then  I  asked  Maggie,  quite  con- 
fidentially, whether  she  would  like  to  work  for 
me  if  I  kept  house ;  for  I  suppose  we  could  not 
afford  more  than  one  servant,  or  two  at  the  most. 
But  Maggie  said  : 

"  Is  it  the  lady's-maid  ye  'd  be  wanting,  Miss 
Marna  ?  It 's  not  a  housemaid  I  am  accustomed 
to  call  myself." 

I  never  felt  uncomfortable  before  the  servants 
before.  Sometimes  I  think  they  don't  like  my 
husband  as  much  as  they  do  me.  I  never  should 
have  believed  that  it  could  make  any  difference 
to  anybody  whether  they  did  or  not. 

I  have  left  the  two  gentlemen  talking  it  out 
in  the  library.  Job  and  I  hear  their  voices  as 
we  curl  up  here  upon  my  lounge  to  rest.  I 
don't  know  why  I  am  so  tired.  Everything 
seems  to  agitate  or  excite  me,  and  then  I  am 
tired  because  I  have  been  agitated.  I  feel  things 
too  much ;  I  am  surcharged,  like  a  Leyden  jar, 
and  every  now  and  then  there  is  a  crash,  a  sort 
of  explosion  of  the  nerve-force,  and  I  find  I  am 
a  little  weak  and  spent.  I  live  all  the  time  in 
an  electric  world,  where  everything  is  tense,  and 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      117 

am  liable  to  accidents  of  feeling  for  which  I  can 
never  be  prepared.  Dana  is  always  in  a  hurry, 
and  a  more  nervous  man  than  I  thought  him. 
I  think  he  wants  calm  and  comfort  all  the  time. 
Sometimes  I  wonder  if  he  did  n't  need  a  serener 
girl  than  I  am — some  one  quite  poised  and 
comfortable — a  girl  who  does  n't  mind  things. 
It  would  break  my  heart  if  I  thought  any  woman 
in  the  world  could  have  made  Dana  happier 
than  I  can. 

Father's  voice  is  quite  low  and  controlled, 
perfectly  modulated,  always;  he  never  loses 
himself.  Poor  Dana  must  be  disturbed  about 
something.  All  those  tones  in  his  voice  that  I 
love  least  are  uppermost  to-night.  I  feel  as  if  I 
wanted  to  go  down  and  put  my  arms  about  him, 
and  put  my  lips  to  his,  and  kiss  part  of  his  voice 
out  of  his  nature. 

December  the  eighteenth. 

IT  is  very  suddenly  decided  —  for  that  is  Dana's 
way :  to  do  things  at  once.  We  are  to  build 
a  cottage  of  our  own  here  on  Father's  place. 
Father  will  deed  the  land  to  me,  but  Dana 
builds  the  house.  We  shall  have  to  mortgage 
it,  he  says.  This  seems  to  me  somehow  a  lit- 
tle disgraceful.  Dana  threw  back  his  curling 
head  and  laughed  when  I  said  so.  I  told  him 
he  laughed  like  the  young  god  Pan,  so  I  laughed, 


u8     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

too.  Dana's  spirits  are  contagious;  that  is,  all 
but  sometimes.  Once  in  a  while  I  feel  as  if  he 
tried  to  laugh  away  things  which  are  not  laugh- 
able, and  then  I  am  not  merry.  Father  is  rather 
quiet;  he  does  not  talk  much  about  the  cottage. 
He  only  said  that  it  was  perfectly  natural  for  a 
man  to  want  his  own  home ;  he  finds  no  fault  at 
all  with  Dana. 

"  It  will  be  a  good  deal  of  a  care  for  you  just 
now,"  he  said,  but  that  was  all. 

Dana's  voice  —  his  best  voice  —  soars  all  over 
the  house.  He  is  singing : 

Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest; 

The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky; 

To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Now  he  has  slipped  into  a  discord,  and  stopped 
the  music  with  a  crash.  Now  he  will  come 
running  up-stairs,  two  at  a  time.  I  know  what 
that  means  :  he  misses  me.  He  will  come  bound- 
ing in.  There  will  be  a  kiss,  a  laugh,  his  arms, 
his  love,  and  paradise.  We  shall  have  a  long, 
happy  evening  by  ourselves.  The  fire  is  fair; 
the  sweeping  crimson  curtains  are  drawn ;  there 
are  jacqueminots  on  my  dressing-table;  the  ex- 
pectant room  is  solemn.  The  winter  night  is 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      119 

like  the  angel  Joy,  strong  and  beautiful.  It  is 
as  I  said  those  first  few  weeks  beside  the  autumn 
sea:  Eden  waits  in  every  weather.  Oh,  I  love 
him !  I  love  him  so  that  it  is  as  if  I  could 
perish  of  loving  and  not  know  that  I  had  been 
slain. 

December  the  twenty-fourth. 

WE  are  all  so  happy  to-night  that  it  seems  a 
kind  of  theft  from  joy  to  take  the  time  to  say  so. 
The  angel  of  life  is  bearing  us  along  on  quiet 
wings.  Father  is  quite  well,  better  than  usual, 
and  Dana  has  done  some  brilliant  thing  at  court 
which  pleases  the  governor.  The  ground  is  to 
be  broken  to-morrow  for  our  new  house ;  it  is  to 
stand  just  behind  Ararat,  in  the  garden,  near  the 
wall  and  the  electric  light.  Dana  is  very  merry 
and  kind ;  no  one  can  be  so  kind  as  Dana.  For 
me,  I  am  better,  and  I  am  happy,  too.  The 
doctor  (old  Dr.  Curtis)  has  quite  talked  me  out 
of  the  blues  I  was  in  awhile  ago.  And  to-mor- 
row —  I  thought  I  had  pages  to  say  about  to- 
morrow; but  my  pen  is  deaf  and  dumb.  I  find 
I  cannot  speak,  even  to  my  own  heart — only  to 
his.  I  will  leave  a  note  upon  his  pillow ;  I  hope 
he  will  like  it.  At  first  it  was  a  joy  to  write 
them  because  it  was  clearly  such  a  joy  to  him  to 
read  them.  My  brain  seemed  to  be  stimulated, 
as  well  as  my  heart,  by  happiness;  thought  it- 


120     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

self  was  sharpened,  and  all  my  feeling  and  ex- 
pression refined.  There  is  no  inspiration  like 
that  which  comes  of  being  beloved.  I  think,  if 
I  had  been  born  a  writer  or  a  poet,  I  could  have 
written  a  great  book  or  song  in  my  bridal  weeks. 
Dana  has  been  so  busy  lately  that  I  have  not 
written  him  many  love-notes.  It  is  quite  a  while 
since  I  left  one  upon  his  pillow.  I  put  this  blank 
white  paper  to  my  lips,  and  I  breathe  words  upon 
it,  and  love  them  into  meaning. 

"  DARLING  :  I  should  like  to  say  that  to  you 
which  fails  me  in  the  saying,  for  it  is  our  first 
Christmas  eve  together,  and  to-morrow  will  mean 
something  for  us  which  no  other  Christmas  in 
our  lives  can  mean.  Just  this  little  time  while 
you  are  reading  to  Father  (I  am  glad  you  thought 
to  offer  him  that  pleasure)  I  am  taking  the  leisure 
of  my  heart  to  write  you  a  wife-note.  Do  you 
remember  how  you  used  to  kiss  them  ?  I  shall 
put  this  you  know  where. 

"  The  night  is  strong  and  still.  There  is  not 
much  wind,  and  a  mighty  frost.  The  snow  is 
like  the  shield  of  the  great  Venus  (supposing  her 
to  have  been  a  Victory;  you  know  I  always  fan- 
cied that  idea;  I  like  to  think  that  she  lost  her 
arms  trying  to  defend  herself — she,  Victory, 
vanquished).  See !  the  pagan  is  not  drowned 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      121 

out  of  me  yet,  though  you  have  n't  called  it 
'sumptuous'  for  quite  a  time,  and  to-night  how 
can  imagination  cherish  any  but  the  Christian 
images  ? 

"  I  admit  that  the  others  ring  rather  hollow. 
Even  the  great  Venus,  solemn  and  strong,  ideal 
of  Unattained  Love,  —  perhaps,  who  knows?  of 
the  Unattainable,  —  woman  from  the  first  heart- 
beat, but  goddess  to  the  end,  even  she,  the  glory 
of  paganism  —  she  bows  with  the  shepherds  be- 
fore the  Child  of  Bethlehem.  Can't  you  see  just 
how  she  would  look,  the  awful  Venus,  on  her 
knees'?  I  can. 

"  I  am  writing  by  the  firelight  and  the  electric 
street-light,  crumpled  upon  a  cricket  between  the 
two,  the  paper  on  my  lap  and,  Dear,  the  tears 
upon  my  cheeks.  I  am  thinking  of  the  strange 
light  that  blossomed  on  the  sky  that  night  in 
Palestine.  I  have  always  thought  it  was  deep 
pink,  like  a  bursting  rose.  I  am  thinking  of 
the  village  khan  and  the  grotto  stable;  it  flits 
before  me  like  the  plates  in  a  sacred  magic- 
lantern  at  some  religious  scene,  now  this  slide, 
now  that,  returning  on  themselves  and  repeating 
the  effect,  and  always  centering  upon  one  group. 

"Dear,  I  have  done  all  my  Christmasing  for 
Father,  for  the  servants,  for  Job,  and  for  every- 
body, and  I  have  not  much  for  you ;  only  one 


122      CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

thing.  I  shall  fold  it  in  this  note,  it  is  so  small. 
For  when  I  tried  to  think  what  I  could  give  you,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  nothing  left.  I  have 
given  you  all  I  am.  How  can  I,  who  am  so  spend- 
thrift of  myself  for  your  dear  sake  —  how  can  I 
offer  you  any  small  thing  on  this,  on  this  first 
Christmas  of  our  life  together?  I  chose  the  little 
gold  Madonna  for  your  watch-guard  because  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  anything  else.  It  was 
made  for  me  in  Paris  (if  you  care  to  know),  but 
it  is  to  me  as  if  Love  had  ordered  it  for  me  out 
of  heaven.  Wear  it,  Dear,  because  you  love  me, 
because  you  love  us. 

"  I  find  I  cannot  write  to-night;  I  cannot  think; 
I  dare  not  dream.  I  find  it  out  of  my  power  to 
admit  your  soul  altogether  to  my  own.  For  I 
begin  to  feel  now,  as  I  used  to  do  before  we  were 
married,  that  a  woman  must  not  exact  too  much 
of  a  man ;  she  must  not  expect  him  to  under- 
stand ;  she  must  remind  herself  that  he  is  a  man, 
and  cannot.  For  a  time  we  have  been  one,  you 
and  I,  husband  and  wife,  and  the  eternal  and  al- 
mighty difference  has  been  smitten  out  between 
us  by  strong  love,  which  makes  of  twain  one 
being. 

"  Now,  at  the  very  time  when  we  begin  to  be 
dearest  to  each  other,  closest,  most  sacred,  now 
we  begin  again,  for  I  do  perceive  it,  while  most 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      123 

united,  to  deviate,  nature  from  nature,  sex  from 
sex.  Already,  thou  dear  lord  of  me  and  of  mine, 
I  feel  with  blinding  tears  that  I  stand  apart  from 
thee,  when  most  cherished  by  thee.  Already  I 
see  that  I  begin  to  tread  a  separate  and  a  solemn 
road. 

"  Dana  !  Dana !  My  heart  reaches  out  to  you 
with  an  unutterable  cry.  Try  to  interpret  its 
inarticulate  meaning. 

"  Forgive  this  too  solemn  letter,  my  dear  Love, 
and  love  me  better  for  it  if  you  can.  If  your 
love  does  not  advance  with  my  need  of  it,  I  shall 
perish  of  that  pause. 

"For  I  can  see  nothing  in  all  the  world  of 
visions  this  Christmas  eve  but  the  Mother  with 
the  Child  upon  her  breast. 

"  Oh,  be  gentle  to 

"  YOUR  WIFE." 

May  the  fifteenth. 

WHEN  I  see  how  long  it  is  since  I  have  opened 
this  book,  I  do  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or 
cry.  As  a  rule  I  find  the  former  works  better. 
Masculine  tenderness  is  said  to  respond  to  tears. 
I  do  not  find  it  so.  Rather,  I  should  say  that  a 
man's  devotion  fades  under  salt  water,  like  a 
bathing-suit,  proving  unserviceable  in  the  very 
element  for  which  it  is  supposed  to  be  adapted. 


124     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

I  never  used  to  be  a  crying  girl ;  I  am  quite 
ashamed  of  the  number  of  times  a  week  I  lock 
myself  into  my  own  rooms  to  have  it  out  with 
myself.  I  suppose  it  is  a  physical  condition. 
Nobody  sees  but  Job.  He  jumps  into  my  lap, 
more  gently  than  he  used  to,  and  kisses  my  wet 
face.  Heaven  knows  how  he  understands  that 
drops  on  a  cheek  mean  grief  in  the  heart.  Some- 
times I  think  that  perception  of  the  finer  states  of 
one  we  love  is  in  relation  to  dumbness.  Words, 
protestations,  impulses  of  the  lip,  come  to  mean 
less  as  love  means  more.  One  of  the  sages  was 
he  who  said  that  conduct  is  three  fourths  of  life. 

Our  cottage  is  done  and  we  move  in  to-mor- 
row. It  is  the  night  before  I  leave  my  father's 
home  for  our  own.  There  has  been  too  much  to 
do,  and  I  am  not  quite  equal  now  to  the  tax  upon 
my  strength.  I  was  always  such  a  well,  strong 
girl  —  poised,  I  think,  in  soul  and  body.  Physi- 
cal malaise  is  a  foreigner  to  me,  and  there  is  no 
common  vocabulary  between  it  and  myself.  No 
girl  thinks  of  this.  When  I  expected  to  be 
most  comforted  I  find  myself  most  solitary.  I 
suppose  it  is  a  common,  or  at  least  a  frequent, 
experience.  Men  are  so  busy  and  so  insolently 
strong.  There  is  something  cruel  in  their  physi- 
cal freedom. 

No  woman  deity  could  ever  have  constructed 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      125 

this  world.  I  wonder  is  there  not  somewhere, 
softly  whirring  through  space,  a  planet  that  the 
Ewigweibliche  has  created  ?  There  must  be  a 
feminine  element  in  Godhead,  or  woman  would 
not  exist.  Suppose  this  were  given  its  untram- 
meled  and  separate  expression  ?  I  like  to  think 
what  a  world  that  would  be,  or  may  be  yet,  for 
aught  we  know. 

I  am  tired  —  oh,  I  am  tired !  I  do  not  feel 
much  enthusiasm  about  this  new  house.  The 
sheer  strain  of  building  and  furnishing  has  shaken 
the  romance  all  out  of  it.  A  sensible,  middle- 
aged  woman  once  told  me  that  she  and  her  hus- 
band came  to  the  brink  of  a  divorce  over  the 
first  house  they  built  (they  are  rather  an  unusu- 
ally happy  couple),  and  that  the  only  way  she 
prevented  the  catastrophe  was  by  saying,  "  Have 
it  all  your  own  way;  I  will  not  express  another 
wish  about  this  house."  Yet  they  lived  in  it 
comfortably  for  fifteen  years.  She  had  seven 
children,  most  of  them  born  in  it. 

Dana  is  happy  about  the  house,  quite  happy; 
and  I  suppose  this  ought  to  make  me  so.  It 
would  have,  once.  But  I  see  so  little  of  my 
husband  now  that  the  proportions  of  feeling  are 
changing.  I  am  afraid  they  are  changing  in 
me  as  well  as  in  him.  I  don't  mean  —  no,  no ! 
I  could  not  mean  that  I  care  less.  But  I  enjoy 


126     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

less  and  I  suffer  more.  He  is  away  from  home 
all  day  and  many  evenings;  sometimes  most 
evenings  of  the  week.  And  he  travels  more 
or  less  on  his  professional  business  or  on  political 
errands.  I  try  to  think  that  this  is  all  right,  and 
that  it  is  always  necessary.  In  my  soul  I  know 
it  is  not.  I  am  already  very  lonely.  I  am  per- 
plexed and  troubled.  I  used  always  to  feel  be- 
loved. Now  I  feel  hurt  much  of  the  time. 
Such  a  state  as  this  chills  a  woman  to  the  heart. 
My  husband  sometimes  calls  me  cold ;  he  will 
say  this  when  I  am  quivering  with  wounded 
love,  when  I  am  nothing  but  one  nerve  of  pas- 
sionate tenderness  bruised.  I  do  not  reply;  I 
let  him  say  so.  I  have  tried  to  make  him  see 
how  it  really  is.  I  have  tried  so  often  that  I 
have  got  through.  I  am  beginning  to  think  that 
he  cannot  understand. 

Perhaps  I  shall  be  happier  in  our  new  house. 
And  by  and  by  —  in  October,  when  I  am  well 
again  —  perhaps  he  will  be  different ;  he  will 
stay  at  home  more ;  we  shall  be  together  as 
we  used  to  be ;  and  he  will  be  so  happy,  we 
shall  be  so  united,  that  I  shall  be  glad  again.  I 
must  hold  this  truth  fast;  for,  from  very  phys- 
ical weakness,  and  a  little,  I  think,  from  lone- 
liness, it  eludes  me.  The  kingdom  of  love 
is  within  us,  and  "  only  our  own  souls  can  sever 
us." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     127 

I  AM  too  rebel  to  the  primal  laws.  No  Wilder- 
ness Girl  should  ever  be  married,  I  think.  Oh, 
the  silence  and  the  freedom  and  the  sacred  soli- 
tudes of  maidenhood!  I  think  of  them  with  a  pas- 
sionate hunger  and  thirst.  I  remember  how  Gwen- 
dolen, after  one  of  her  scenes  with  Grandcourt, 
complained  to  herself  that  she  could  not  even 
make  a  passionate  exclamation,  or  throw  up  her 
arms  as  she  would  have  done  in  her  maiden  days. 

But  she  did  not  love  her  husband.  I  never 
thought  to  see  the  time  when  I  should  thank 
God  that  I  do  love  mine.  But  now  I  perceive 
that  if  I  did  not  the  foundations  of  the  great 
deep  would  be  broken  up.  And  I  should  — 
What  should  I  do  ?  What  could  I  do  ? 

Job  just  pulled  something  from  the  basket 
on  my  sewing-table  and  brought  it  to  me,  wag- 
ging rather  piteously.  It  is  the  little  blue  blan- 
ket that  I  am  trying  to  embroider  for  my  son. 
It  grows  slowly ;  I  never  liked  to  sew. 

Let  me  learn  to  be  divinely  patient,  as  women 
can,  as  women  must.  I  must  remember  that 
happiness  has  not  fled  from  my  life  at  all.  The 
angel  Joy  will  return  with  a  sweet  and  solemn 
face.  "  And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

Eleven  o'clock. 

I  HAVE  spent .  most  of  the  evening  with  Father, 
for  he,  too,  feels,  I  can  see,  the  emotion  of  this 


128     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

last  night  before  I  leave  his  house.  I  had  read 
him  to  sleep,  I  thought,  before  I  slid  up-stairs. 
Just  now  the  front  door  opened  (with  some  un- 
necessary noise),  and  I  ran  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs  to  tell  Dana  that  Father  was  asleep.  But 
he  had  gone  on  into  the  library  before  I  could 
attract  his  attention. 

He  stays  so  long  that  I  wonder  why.  I  be- 
lieve I  will  go  down.  .  .  . 

I  went.  My  red  slippers  are  quite  mute,  and 
my  old  ruby  gown  never  whispers.  I  did  not 
think  that  they  would  not  hear  me,  and  I  came 
upon  them  quite  suddenly  and  unnoticed. 

The  two  men  were  standing  in  the  dim  library, 
for  Father  had  got  into  his  dressing-gown  and 
had  come  out  to  meet  my  husband ;  I  am  afraid 
he  had  been  listening  for  his  son-in-law  to  come 
in.  He  held  Dana's  hand  in  his  own.  Dana 
looked  very  handsome  and  debonair  in  his  even- 
ing dress,  with  his  nonchalant  eyes,  and  smiling 
steadily.  Father  did  not  smile;  his  face  worked. 
As  I  stood  silent  and  wondering,  I  saw  the 
sacred  tears  stream  down  my  father's  face. 

"  Oh,  be  kind  to  her !  "  he  said.  "  Be  kind 
to  her ! " 

May  the  sixteenth. 

Too  tired  to  sit  up,  I  write  this  lying  flat  on  my 
new  bed  in  my  new  room,  in  our  new  house.  It 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     129 

seemed  a  pity  not  to  sanctify  the  date  by  one 
warm  word ;  for  we  moved  over  in  a  cold  storm 
—  one  of  my  own  northeasters.  All  the  garden 
trees  are  tossing  like  masts  in  a  gale,  every  green 
sail  flapping.  The  old  apple-tree,  on  a  level 
with  our  little  library,  turns  a  strange,  familiar 
face  to  me  in  the  rain,  like  the  face  of  a  friend 
whom  you  had  never  seen  cry  before;  there 
seems  to  be  no  way  to  wipe  off  the  tears,  and 
they  stream  on  steadily.  This  is  the  more  no- 
ticeable because  we  really  are  not  sad  at  all. 

The  cottage  is  quite  comfortable,  and  I  should 
not  have  thought  it  would  seem  so  attractive  by 
gas-light ;  it  is  very  bright,  and  all  the  colors  are 
warm.  There  is  rose  in  my  own  room.  Why 
is  it  that  color  means  something  less  to  me  than 
it  used  to  do  *?  Once  I  should  have  responded 
to  the  tinting  of  this  room  (it  is  really  very  good) 
in  every  nerve.  Now,  somehow,  it  does  not  seem 
to  matter  very  much.  I  suppose  that  is  physical, 
too.  Most  things  are,  to  women.  Who  said, 
"  There  is  a  spiritual  body  "  ?  Paul,  I  suppose. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  philosophy  as  sound  as  it 
is  subtle  in  those  five  words. 

The  new  maids  are  buzzing  about  the  new 
kitchen.  It  seems  like  a  doll's  house.  Maggie 
has  gone  to  Mrs.  Gray.  Old  Ellen  takes  care 
of  Father,  and  he  has  connected  the  two  houses 


130     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

by  telephone.  Job  is  plainly  homesick,  and 
will  not  go  to  bed.  Every  time  the  apple-tree 
hits  the  tree-house  he  barks  in  a  melancholy 
manner,  and  Dana  cuffs  him  for  it,  for  Dana  can- 
not bear  anything  melancholy. 

There  is  a  banshee  in  my  house,  I  find.  My 
speaking-tube  to  the  cook's  room  catches  the 
wind  and  wails  beyond  belief.  Job  growls  at 
the  banshee. 

Dana  is  so  happy  that  I  wonder  I  do  not  feel 
happier.  There  is  a  new  piano,  and  he  sits 
singing.  Somehow  he  seems  to  me  like  a  new 
husband.  But  I  am  quite  aware  that  I  do  not 
seem  to  him  like  a  new  wife.  I  wonder  if  I 
ever  shall  again  ?  He  plays  with  his  nonchalant 
touch : 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest ; 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest. 

Yes, here  it  comes;  I  hoped  he  would  not  forget 
it.  I  really  do  not  know  why  I  did  not  want  to 
ask  him  for  this  song.  Something  of  the  bond- 
age of  maidenhood  seems  to  remain  in  a  wife,  a 
kind  of  impossibility, —  I  do  not  know  how  to 
express  it, —  a  power  not  herself  which  makes 
for  silence,  the  terrible  law  which  takes  from  a 
woman's  love  even  that  which  it  hath,  and  forbids 
her  to  woo  even  her  own  husband.  I  do  not 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      131 

know  whether  this  is  a  right  law  or  a  wrong  one, 
a  tradition  or  an  instinct.  I  do  not  think  women 
are  alike  in  this.  Perhaps  it  is  relative,  too — so 
much  freedom  in  her  nature  to  so  much  love  in 
his.  The  banshee  is  quite  overborne  as  he  sings 
joyously : 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee, 
On  my  Arab  shod  with  fire. 

May  the  twentieth. 

THE  new  maid  (her  name  is  Luella)  hit  the  new 
sofa  bang !  against  the  new  library  wall  to-day, 
and  bit  two  bites  out  of  the  new  old-gold  calci- 
mine. Dana  was  very  angry.  I  did  not  know 
for  quite  a  while  after  we  were  married  that  he 
was  such  a  quick-tempered  man.  I  feel  very 
sorry  for  him ;  it  must  be  so  uncomfortable  to 
be  quick-tempered.  I  am  differently  constituted 
myself:  I  grieve. 

I  think  he  thinks  it  is  my  fault  when  he  is 
angry.  I  wonder  if  it  is?  Of  course  I  am  not 
always  right;  and  then,  a  woman  is  in  such  physi- 
cal discomfort  most  of  the  time.  To-day  I  an- 
swered Dana  very  positively.  He  scolded  Luella 
so  that  she  gave  notice  on  the  spot.  I  never 
heard  a  girl  give  notice  before,  and  it  was  a  dis- 
agreeable experience.  \Ve  never  had  any  trou- 
ble with  our  maids  in  Father's  house.  I  have 


132     CONFESSIONS    OF  A    WIFE 

always  grown  up  with  the  feeling  that  families 
that  changed  servants  were  not  quite  respectable. 
I  told  Dana  that  he  ought  to  leave  the  manage- 
ment of  the  servants  to  me.  He  said,  "D — n!" 
Then  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out.  There  is 
no  music  to-night.  Luella  and  the  cook  are 
conspiring  in  the  kitchen,  and  Job  and  I  are 
tete-a-tete,  exchanging  confidences. 

May  the  twenty-first. 

DANA  was  charming  this  evening.  I  think  he  is 
sorry.  I  had  found  some  good  old  prints  of 
Landseer's  dogs,  and  cut  them  out  and  pasted 
them  up  over  the  breaks  in  the  calcimine,  above 
the  sofa,  something  like  the  frieze  of  a  dado; 
really,  they  have  quite  an  effect  of  their  own. 

"  You  always  were  clever,"  he  said,  and  kissed 
me  twice.  Job  was  positively  jealous  of  the 
Landseer  dogs.  We  held  him  up,  and  I  stroked 
the  dogs,  and  Job  growled  and  snarled  and  flew 
at  them.  Dana  was  immensely  amused.  He 
named  one  of  the  dogs  David,  and  the  other 
Dora.  We  have  had  a  happy  evening,  and 
Luella  has  consented  to  stay. 

The  night  is  all  a  palette  of  pale  greens  and 
fair  blues  and  grays  after  the  storm,  and  there  is 
no  banshee.  The  apple-tree  is  in  blossom,  and 
the  tree-house  is  drifted  with  snow  of  pink  and 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      133 

pearl.  Dana  asked  me  to  come  out  into  the 
tree-house  with  him.  "  Subpoena  Job  for  wit- 
ness," he  said.  "  He  can  testify  —  what  you 
have  the  air  of  forgetting,  my  lady  —  that  I  took 
the  first  there.  Nothing  can  undo  that." 

"  I  wonder  if  anything  can  ever  undo  any- 
thing1?" I  said,  laughing  too.  So  I  climbed  up 
into  the  tree-house  to  please  him;  but  I  was  so 
tired  and  physically  wretched  that  I  am  afraid  I 
disappointed  him,  and  I  could  not  stay  very  long. 
I  think  Dana  really  tried  to  reproduce  something 
of  the  old  glamour,  and  when  he  found  that  it 
was  missing,  he  thought  it  was  I  who  failed  to 
supply  the  materials  of  romance.  No  wonder. 

I  read  a  story  last  week  in  which  the  author 
took  upon  himself  to  remark  that  the  experience 
of  prospective  parentage  was  equally  hard  to 
husband  and  to  wife,  because,  "while  she  bore 
her  sufferings,  he  bore  her  complaints  " !  It  is 
unnecessary  to  observe  that  this  piece  of  fiction 
was  written  by  a  man.  This  paragraph  is  quite 
superfluous,  —  I  believe  women  are  superfluous 
by  nature, — for  Dana  has  been  very  kind  to  me 
to-day.  I  have  just  telephoned  to  Father  that  I 
am  quite  happy. 

"  June  the  tenth. 

"  DANA  MY  DEAR  :  I  do  not  think  it  will  be 
necessary  for  you  to  hurry  home  if  the  trip  is 


134    CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

doing  you  good.  And  if  there  is  any  professional 
reason,  as  you  say,  for  prolonging  it  a  few  days 
more,  never  mind  me.  I  cannot  say,  to  be 
honest,  that  I  am  very  well.  The  hot  weather 
has  leaped  upon  us  like  a  tiger  from  a  jungle;  I 
never  was  torn  by  it  before.  But  I  am  not  suf- 
fering for  anything  in  particular,  except  you.  I 
suppose  a  husband's  presence  is  one  of  the  luxu- 
ries that  a  wife  must  learn  to  go  without.  That 
seems  to  be  the  modern  idea.  And  I  am  too 
busy  to  mope  or  sentimentalize  about  you. 

"  Things  are  going  after  a  fashion  in  the  house. 
The  room  being  smaller  than  I  am  used  to,  I 
think  I  feel  the  hot  nights  more.  And  Luella 
has  given  notice  again,  and  again  consented  to 
remain. 

"  Father  is  a  little  troubled  about  the  effect  of 
this  weather  on  me,  and  has  been  doing  some- 
thing about  the  Dowe  Cottage  for  August  and 
September.  What  do  you  think?  He  asked 
me  to  ask  you  to  telegraph  if  you  approve.  The 
idea  is  that  we  should  go  there  (to  visit  him), 
and  stay  till  all  is  over.  Dr.  Curtis  urges  it.  I 
must  say  I  should  like  to  go.  On  these  breath- 
less nights,  in  my  stuffy  little  rose  room,  I  seem 
to  see  waves  breaking  on  the  window-sill;  but 
they  never  get  over.  I  can  almost  smell  the 
salt,  but  I  never  feel  the  spray.  And,  then,  we 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      135 

were  so  happy  there!  I  can't  help  feeling  as  if 
the  old  joy  were  shut  up  in  that  cottage,  like  a 
tenant  who  was  locked  in,  and  would  fly  to  meet 
us,  and  take  us  in  his  arms,  and  bless  us  both 
for  now  and  for  ever. 

"  I  am  your  loving  and  your  lonely 

"  WIFE." 

June  the  tenth. 

I  HAVE  just  written  to  Dana  about  the  Dowe 
Cottage.  I  am  afraid  it  was  not  exactly  a  love- 
letter;  somehow,  I  could  not.  If  I  had  let  him 
know  how  much  I  miss  him,  I  do  not  think  he 
would  quite  like  it  altogether.  Why  is  almighty 
Nature  forever  laying  a  coal  of  fire  upon  a 
woman's  lips? 

So  I  wrote  quite  stiffly  and  serenely;  and 
when  I  had  finished  the  letter  I  cried,  for  no- 
body but  Job  could  see. 

I  just  got  up  and  went  into  his  room,  and 
touched  all  his  little  things  —  the  brushes  on  his 
dressing-case,  his  slippers  lying  where  he  tossed 
them  (for  he  never  likes  to  have  me  move  them 
to  put  them  away),  his  ash-receiver,  with  a  half- 
burnt  cigar  just  as  he  left  it.  Then  I  went  into  the 
closet  where  his  clothes  are  hanging,  and  put  my 
cheek  to  them  all,  one  after  the  other.  His  blue 
velveteen  smoking-jacket  hung  inside  the  door; 


136     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

he  wore  that  one  day  when  he  seemed  to  love  me 
more  than  usual,  and  —  I  could  not  help  it  —  I 
kissed  the  velveteen  coat.  I  kissed  it  several  times. 

June  the  fifteenth. 

I  WENT  out  about  the  grounds  to-day  to  oversee 
some  workmen  who  were  grading,  but  was  quite 
overcome  by  the  burning  weather,  and  I  think  I 
had  something  like  a  faint,  or  touch  of  the  sun. 
When  they  helped  me  indoors  the  house  seemed 
to  rock  and  reverberate  with  Dana's  voice,  and  it 
was  as  if  he  were  singing : 

Trees  where  you  sit  shall  crowd  into  a  shade. 

I  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  was  not  there. 

"j4ugust  the  tenth.  West  Manchester. 
"  MY  DEAR  HEART  :  You  have  been  very  de- 
voted and  kind  to  me  ever  since  we  came  here, 
and  I  want  to  bless  you  for  it.  I  know  that  you 
have  been  working  too  hard  and  need  a  change, 
and  I  am  sure  it  is  quite  safe  for  you  to  be  away 
for  a  little  while.  If  you  want  to  try  the  moun- 
tains after  Bar  Harbor,  I  would  not  prevent  it  on 
any  account.  As  long  as  you  keep  within  reach 
of  the  telegraph  it  will  be  all  right.  I  thank  you 
for  giving  up  the  Adirondack  trip,  for  I  do  think 
that  was  too  far  away  just  now.  Continue  to 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      137 

write  and  telegraph  as  faithfully  and  lovingly 
as  you  have  done.  I  depend  on  that  more  than 
you  know.  A  wife  is  one  of  the  foolish  folk ; 
you  cannot  exact  man's  poise  or  wisdom  of  a 
woman's  heart  and  body.  I  never  love  you  so 
much  as  when  you  remember  to  love  me  and  to 
comfort  me  in  little  ways. 

"  How  handsome  you  looked  the  morning  you 
left,  my  beautiful !  You  went  swinging  down 
the  avenue.  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  station  with 
you,  and  because  I  could  not  I  cried  a  little;  but 
not  till  you  had  quite  gone.  I  watched  you  till 
you  were  out  of  sight.  The  light  was  splendid 
on  your  hair  and  forehead  as  you  lifted  your  hat 
and  kissed  your  hand.  I  thought:  'If  I  should 
never  see  him  again,  what  a  vision  to  keep  with 
me  in  this  world,  or  to  take  with  me  to  another!' 
Women  will  have  such  thoughts,  my  darling; 
we  watt  too  much  to  take  life  lightly.  Be 
patient  with 

"  MARNA,  your  Wife." 

TELEGRAM 

"  West  Manchester,  August  17. 

"To  Dana  Herwin, 

"Maplewood  House, 

"Bethlehem,  New  Hampshire. 

"  Come  at  once. 

"FRANCIS  TRENT." 


138     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

TELEGRAM 

'-'•West  Manchester,  August  18. 
"To  Dana  Her  win, 

"Care  of  Conductor,  White  Mountain  Express, 
en  route  for  Boston.      Try  Portsmouth. 

"  Don't  suffer.     I  am  not  in  any  danger  now. 
But  the  blanket  ought  to  have  been  pink. 

"  MARNA." 

"August  the  eighteenth. 

"  DEAR  FATHER  OF  MY  DAUGHTER  :  They  let 
me  write,  in  pencil,  for  I  insisted.  Father  will 
give  it  to  you  at  the  station.  I  convinced  the 
doctor  it  would  be  better  for  me  than  to  talk  — 
at  first.  I  don't  want  to  speak.  I  only  want  to 
be  touched  and  kissed — and  for  you  not  to  go 
.away  again.  All  I  want,  all  I  want  in  this  world, 
is  you.  I  shall  get  well.  There  will  nothing 
go  wrong  now  you  are  here.  Oh,  I  cannot  say 
that  it  was  not  hard — without  you.  At  first  I 
thought  of  everything — motherless  young  wives, 
and  women  with  drunken  husbands,  and  the 
poor,  unwedded  girls :  all  womanhood  seemed 
to  pass  by  me  in  a  pathetic  procession,  drifting 
through  the  room.  And  I  thought,  *  I  am  one  of 
them.' 

"  But  after  that  I  thought  of  nothing  —  no- 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      139 

thing  in  earth  or  heaven  but  you  —  not  of  the 
baby  at  all,  only  you,  you. 

"  Stay  by  me  when  you  come,  Darling!  Don't 
let  them  persuade  you  that  it  will  harm  me.  It 
will  save  me,  and  it  is  the  only  thing  that  will. 
They  thought  that  I  should  die,  but  I  could  not 
die  when  you  were  so  far  away.  That  would 
have  been  impossible. 

"  Dana,  Dana,  I  live,  and  I  love  you.  For  I 
am 

"THE  MOTHER  OF  YOUR  CHILD." 

August  the  thirtieth. 

THIS  is  the  first  time  I  have  been  allowed  to 
write  (to  amuse  myself),  and  I  am  limited  to 
eight  lines.  "  Being  happy,"  I  remember  Haw- 
thorne said,  "  he  had  no  questions  to  put."  Being 
happy  because  my  husband  gives  rne  every  mo- 
ment that  he  can  beg  or  steal  from  time,  being 
happy  because  he  is  so  happy,  because  he  blinds 
me  with  tenderness,  I  have  no  letters  to  write. 
Instead,  I  record  the  fact  that  my  daughter  is 
two  weeks  old  to-day,  and  that  Job  is  so  jealous 
of  her  that  we  cannot  keep  them  in  the  same 
room.  I  think  he  is  planning  definite  hostilities. 
Job  finds  her  more  objectionable  than  David 
and  Dora. 


IV1 


November  the  tenth. 

I  HEARD  of  a  man  the  other  day  whose  wife 
went  into  his  room  to  kiss  him  good  night, 
and  he  said :  "  Mary,  why  do  you  do  this  ?  I 
do  not  love  you.  There  is  no  other  woman  in 
the  case.  I  have  not  wronged  you.  But  I  no 
longer  love  you.  If  I  were  you,  I  should  not 
kiss  my  husband  under  these  circumstances." 

This  is  a  true  story.  Minnie  Curtis  told  me 
the  names  of  the  people.  I  repeated  it  to  Dana 
to-day,  and  he  said,  yes,  she  had  told  him  that 
yarn.  He  finds  it  quite  a  relief,  he  says,  when 

1  Upon  careful  examination  of  the  manuscript  of  which  these  confessions  are 
composed,  the  system  of  dating  is  found  to  be,  after  the  manner  of  women, 
quite  a  matter  of  accident.  Days  of  the  month  or  week  are  usually  observed 
with  something  like  accuracy,  but  there  is  no  reliable  calendar  of  the  years. 

The  next  available  record  occurs  apparently  a  year  and  some  months  from 
the  date  of  the  last  entry  given  in  these  columns,  and  which  was  coincident 
with  the  birth  of  the  young  wife's  child. 

A  close  study  of  the  copy  reveals  the  fact  that  certain  pages  of  the  Ac- 
cepted Manuscript  are  missing,  having  been  torn  rather  than  cut  away,  and 
presumably  destroyed. 

What  letters,  if  any,  have  shared  the  same  fate,  it  is  impossible  to 
say. — M.  A. 

140 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      141 

he  is  tired  and  the  baby  is  crying,  to  run  in  to 
the  Curtises'.  He  met  Robert  Hazelton  there, 
the  last  time,  consulting  with  Dr.  Curtis.  The  old 
doctor  is  not  well,  and  makes  over  a  good  deal 
of  his  practice  to  Robert.  I  asked  Dana  if  he 
thought  Robert  saw  much  of  Minnie ;  but  Dana 
says  that  Robert  has  no  time  to  talk  to  girls  — 
he  says  he  does  n't  think  he  is  that  kind  of  doc- 
tor. It  leaped  to  my  lips  to  ask  Dana  why  he 
was  that  kind  of  lawyer.  But  I  did  not  do  it. 
If  I  had,  all  the  answer  I  should  have  got  would 
have  been :  "  You  don't  classify  quite  correctly. 
I  'm  going  into  politics,"  or  some  equally  clever 
parry.  Nothing  would  have  been  gained,  and 
something  lost  —  something  of  that  indefinable 
advantage  which  a  wife  (more  than  a  husband,  I 
think)  retains  with  self-possession.  A  woman 
can  never  afford  to  be  cross.  Why  is  it  that  a 
man  can  ? 

The  first  lesson  of  a  wife  is  to  learn  when  not 
to  speak ;  I  doubt  if  she  ever  learns  why  not.  I 
am  a  dull  pupil  in  the  school  of  marriage.  No 
Wilderness  Girl  takes  to  the  higher  mathematics 
with  any  natural  grace.  If  it  were  not  for  my 
daughter  —  well,  if  it  were  not  for  my  daughter  *? 
It  is  for  my  daughter  —  the  insurmountable  fact, 
the  unanswerable  question,  the  key  that  locks 
me  to  my  lot.  If  I  fled  back  to  my  forest,  she 


142      CONFESSIONS   OF  A  WIFE 

would  cry  for  me.  And  if  I  strapped  her  on  my 
back  and  ran  —  I  don't  think  the  governor's 
granddaughter  would  make  a  successful  papoose. 
She  is  much  more  like  her  grandfather  than  like 
me,  thank  Heaven.  She  has  his  equable  mouth, 
though  it  curls  at  the  corners  more  than  his.  I 
think  she  will  grow  up  into  a  comfortable  young 
lady,  and  marry  a  congressman,  and  be  happy 
ever  after.  There  is  nothing  of  her  father  about 
her  yet,  except  his  eyes;  hers  already  have  the 
insouciance,  but  not  the  insolence,  the  superflu- 
ous merriment  refined  by  her  sex.  I  have  studied 
her  anxiously.  She  bears  my  mother's  name. 

"  Marion,"  I  said  to-day,  "  I  am  glad  you  are 
not  a  boy  baby." 

She  gave  me  an  elfish  glance,  and  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  curled.  I  never  saw  a  sarcastic 
baby  before. 

November  the  twentieth. 

I  HAVE  the  outlines  of  a  Greek  tragedy  before 
me.  A  girl  I  used  to  go  to  school  with  married 
a  brilliant  young  fellow  of  her  own  social  class, 
whom  she  adored  with  that  kind  of  too  tolerant 
tenderness  for  which,  as  a  sex,  we  seem  to 
be  distinguished.  Some  overlooked  heredity, 
rooted  two  generations  back,  resulted  in  drink- 
ing, and  drinking  resulted  in  worse.  He  left 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE        143 

her  last  spring  for  a  woman  such  as  Fanny  never 
saw  in  her  life.  Fanny  has  two  children,  and 
that  sort  of  ill  health  which  heartbreak  creates  in 
women,  a  disorder  not  catalogued  in  the  medical 
books.  Her  family  lost  their  property  when  her 
father  died,  and  to-day  I  had  her  advertising 
cards.  They  set  forth  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Fanny 
Freer,  masseuse,  will  treat  patients  at  their  own 
homes  for  one  dollar  an  hour.  She  will  also 
repair  ladies'  dresses,  ar\d  cut  and  make  chil- 
dren's clothes. 

I  call  it  Greek  because  she  has  not  made  any 
fuss  about  it,  but  has  endured  her  fate  with  a 
terrible  and  splendid  dumbness  for  which,  again, 
as  a  sex,  we  are  not  distinguished.  She  is  a  lit- 
tle blonde  thing,  too,  with  a  dimple,  and  a  bow- 
and-arrow  mouth,  and  always  had  more  gloves 
than  I  did  at  school. 

I  have  been  ailing  lately,  I  don't  know  just 
why.  I  wonder  if  I  could  afford  to  send  for  her 
a  few  times  ?  It  might  be  at  least  a  comfort  to 
her  to  come  here,  where  she  will  be  asked  to  sit 
at  table  with  the  family. 

In  face  of  a  fate  like  this,  how  my  half-grown 
troubles  hang  their  heads !  I  seem  to  see  them 
in  a  row,  standing  like  school-boys  punished  for 
playing  at  Indian  massacre.  "  You  foolish  fel- 
lows ! "  I  say.  "  You  are  a  shabby  lot.  There 


144     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

is  n't  an  Indian  among  you !  Any  respectable 
tomahawk  would  disown  you." 

I  am  beginning  to  understand  that  happiness 
in  marriage  is  an  art.  I  used  to  think  it  was  a 
gift.  In  short,  what  I  thought  was  a  right  proves 
to  be  a  privilege. 

November  the  twenty-third. 

...  I  HOPE  I  have  not  been  exacting  with  Dana. 
He  calls  me  so,  when  he  is  vexed  about  any- 
thing. I  never  was  thought  exacting  in  any 
other  relation  of  life ;  but  marriage  makes  a  new 
being  of  a  woman :  a  wife  is  as  truly  born  into 
an  unknown  world  as  her  child  is.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  my  own  character  to  form,  as 
completely  as  my  daughter's.  I,  Mama  Trent, 
slain  on  my  wedding-day,  am  a  transmigrated 
soul  —  the  "twice-born,"  as  the  Buddhist  calls  it. 
I  am  in  my  second  existence.  .  .  .  Will  there 
be  any  others  ? 

I  found  something  in  one  of  Max  Miiller's 
Oriental  Bibles  yesterday  over  in  Father's  library, 
when  I  went  to  sit  with  him  and  read  to  him, 
for  Father  is  not  quite  well  this  fall,  and  it  is 
touching  to  me  to  see  how  he  clings  to  what  he 
calls  my  "  womanly  tenderness."  (He  never 
said  that  I  was  exacting.)  Here  is  what  I  read  to 
Father  : 

Though  I  go  along  trembling,  like  a  cloud  driven  by  a 
strong  wind,  have  mercy,  Almighty,  have  mercy ! 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      145 

.  .  .  Oh,  I  cannot  deceive  myself,  or  call 
things  by  opalescent  names,  any  longer !  My 
husband  is  not  kind  to  me,  he  is  not  kind ! 

November  the  twenty-seventh. 

WE  took  our  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  Father, 
and  Dana  went  to  the  Curtises'  later  in  the  even- 
ing. I  had  to  come  back  and  stay  with  the  baby, 
to  let  the  girls  go  out.  She  is  asleep,  and  the 
house  is  as  still  as  resignation.  I  cannot  write, 
and  have  been  trying  to  read.  Dana  says  I  do 
not  keep  up  with  current  thought,  and  that  a 
wife  should  make  herself  as  attractive  to  her  hus- 
band intellectually  as  she  was  before  marriage. 
The  first  sentence  I  fell  upon  was  this,  from  a 
French  critic : 

It  is  well  that  passionate  love  is  rare.  Its  principal  effect  is  to 
detach  men  from  all  their  surroundings,  to  isolate  them, 
.  .  .  and  a  civilized  society  composed  of  lovers  would  return 
infallibly  to  misery  and  barbarism. 

I  think  a  woman  should  be  quite  happy  in 
order  to  keep  up  with  current  thought.  Current 
feeling  is  as  much  as  I  can  manage. 

TELEPHONE    MESSAGE 

"  November  the  thirtieth. 
"  Main — 20. 
"  To  Mr.  Dana  Herwin,  from  Mrs.  Herwin. 

"  By  the  maid  to  the  office-boy.      Peter  will  deliver  as  soon 
as  Mr.  Herwin  comes  in. 


146     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

"  Dr.  Curtis  sent  Dr.  Hazelton  over  to  see  the 
baby  this  noon.  He  calls  it  croup.  When  will 
you  be  out"?  MARNA." 

TELEGRAM 

"  New  Tork,  November  30. 
"  To  Mrs.  Dana  Herwin. 

"  Called  suddenly  to  New  York  on  business. 
Did  not  return  to  office.  Hope  child  is  better. 
Address  Astor  House.  DANA." 

TELEPHONE    MESSAGE 
"  The  office-boy  to  the  maid. 

"Say,  Luella,  you  tell  her  he  ain't  got  that 
message.  He  took  the  Limited,  and  never 
showed  up,  only  a  district  messenger  that  sassed 
me,  and  I  showed  him  the  door. 

"  PETER." 

TELEGRAM 

"  Astor  House,  New  Tork,  December  1. 
"To  Mrs.  Dana  Her  win. 

"  Yours  received  too  late  for  midnight  express. 
Will  return  Limited.  Hazelton  all  right.  He  '11 
bring  her  through.  Cheer  up.  Will  catch  the 
3:12.  If  baby  better,  telephone  station.  In 
that  case,  take  later  train.  DANA." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     147 

TELEPHONE    MESSAGE 

"  December  the  first. 
'•  To  Mr.  Dana  Her  win. 

"  Care  of  Chief  Operator,  West  Station. 

"  Marion  is  out  of  danger.  Do  as  you  please 
about  hurrying  home.  She  is  still  sick,  but  safe. 

"  MARNA." 

December  the  first,  10  P.M. 

I  KNEW  he  was  a  good,  true,  clever  man,  but  I 
did  not  know  before  that  Robert  Hazelton  could 
work  a  miracle.  I  never  thought  to  see  the  day 
when  I  should  be  glad  that  old  Dr.  Curtis  could 
not  get  to  my  sick  child ;  but  it  is  my  belief  that 
if  he  had  —  The  new  methods  and  the  new 
remedies  are  wonder-workers  in  the  control  of  an 
able  and  alert  mind,  fresh  from  everything  and 
afraid  of  nothing.  Robert  was  always  a  coura- 
geous fellow;  but  he  is  so  quiet  about  it  that 
one  must  know  him  pretty  well  to  rate  his  intel- 
lectual and  moral  independence  at  anything  like 
its  value. 

Together  we  fought  for  the  baby's  life  all 
night.  What  a  night !  Solemn,  separate  from 
all  nights,  it  stands  apart  in  .my  life  —  the  look 
of  my  child's  face,  the  way  her  little  hands 
clutched  at  the  air ;  and  the  strong,  still  figure 
beside  me,  grasping  her  from  death.  .  .  .  He 


148     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

told  me  to  go  to  bed,  and  that  she  could  be 
trusted  with  Luella.  I  can't  do  it.  I  don't 
think  I  could  do  it  even  if  Dana  had  got  home ; 
and  he  won't  be  here  till  half-past  eleven.  He 
telephoned  that  it  was  very  important,  something 
political,  and  that  if  the  child  were  out  of  danger, 
he  would  take  the  eleven-two ;  unless,  he  said,  I 
wished  him  to  come  right  out"?  I  told  him  to 
do  as  he  pleased,  and  that  it  was  not  at  all 
necessary. 

He  is  away  so  much  that  he  does  not  seem 
necessary  in  these  days  to  very  much  of  anything. 
I  suppose  most  wives  have  that  feeling.  I  hope 
they  do  not  all  have  another,  which  persists  and 
pursues  me  —  this  feeling  hurt,  hurt  all  the  time. 
My  whole  soul  is  raw,  as  if  it  were  flayed  with 
some  petty  instrument  or  utensil,  like  an  awl  or 
a  grater;  something  not  to  be  dignified  as  a 
weapon. 

He  says  he  loves  the  child  as  much  as  I  do. 
I  thought  at  first  that  we  should  grow  nearer  and 
be  dearer  on  account  of  the  baby.  But  I  am 
kept  at  home  so  much  with  her,  and  I  can't  go 
about,  as  I  used  to  do,  with  him ;  and  Dana 
hates  sickness,  and  all  babies  are  ailing  more  or 
less.  Even  the  experience  of  parentage,  which 
I  thought  was  to  unite,  seems  subtly  to  divide 
us.  Everything  almost  that  we  experience  de- 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      149 

velops  the  sundering,  not  the  soldering,  quality. 
One  day  Mrs.  Gray  said  to  me  : 

"  My  dear,  marriage  is  full  of  phases.  Don't 
mistake  them  for  finalities." 

I  suppose  that  is  my  tendency  —  to  look  upon 
the  stages  of  a  thing  as  the  end  of  it.  When 
one  is  caught  on  a  barbed-wire  fence,  one  does 
not  contemplate  the  beauties  of  the  horizon. 

I  am  writing  because  I  cannot  sleep  till  he 
gets  home.  There  would  be  no  use  in  keeping 
Luella  up,  and  I  am  happier  to  watch  the  baby. 
Only  to  hear  her  breathe  is  ecstasy.  All  last 
night  I  had  a  strange,  scared  feeling.  It  seemed 
monstrous  that  her  father  should  not  be  there  if 
she  died.  And  when  she  lived,  it  seemed  some- 
how abnormal  that  it  should  be  Robert  who 
saved  her.  I  have  never  thought  of  him  as  a 
doctor,  only  as  one  of  my  old  friends.  In  fact, 
since  I  have  been  married,  I  have  scarcely  thought 
of  him  at  all. 

He,  on  his  side,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that 
we  were  ever  friends.  He  was  all  doctor.  I 
don't  think  he  had  an  idea  in  his  head  except  to 
save  my  baby's  life  —  not  because  she  was  mine, 
but  because  she  was  a  baby.  His  face  was  set 
and  stern ;  it  was  as  strong  as  bronze.  His  per- 
emptory orders  rang  like  those  of  some  military 
man,  a  stranger,  or  some  one  you  had  only  hap- 


150     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

pened  to  meet.  I  always  liked  his  voice.  I 
don't  think  he  looked  as  short  as  he  used  to.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  if  he  had  grown.  He  came 
again  at  noon,  and  again  this  evening.  When 
he  went  away  at  nine,  he  said :  "  Go  to  sleep. 
The  child  is  safe.  Do  not  sit  up  for  your  hus- 
band. You  are  exhausted." 

"  I  will  meet  him  at  the  station  and  tell  him 
to  come  in  softly,"  he  added,  as  he  shut  the 
door. 

I  did  not  even  thank  him,  or  think,  till  after- 
ward, how  kind  that  was,  or  how  like  him.  If  I 
had,  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  spoken.  His  man- 
ner was  as  impersonal  as  if  he  had  been  a 
physiological  laboratory.  Now  that  I  think  of 
it,  I  don't  believe  he  gave  the  least  evidence  of 
anything  that  could  possibly  be  called  sympathy 
in  all  that  terrible  time.  I  begin,  now  that  the 
strain  is  over,  to  perceive  how  kind  this  was  in 
him.  I  wanted  my  husband  so  all  the  time,  I 
perished  so  for  Dana,  that  one  tender  word  would 
have  demoralized  me.  I  should  have  cried  my 
soul  out.  And  that  would  have  been  bad  for  the 
baby.  I  suppose  physicians  acquire  a  sorcery 
about  all  these  things ;  they  never  cross  the  magic 
circles. 

I  wonder  if  I  ought  not  to  write  to  Robert 
and  thank  him  properly  ? 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     151 

"DEAR  DR.  HAZELTON  :  I  disobeyed  you,  for  I 
cannot  sleep  till  my  husband  gets  home.  So  I 
am  writing.  And  I  know  that  I  shall  rest  bet- 
ter if  I  try  to  tell  you  how  we  feel  about  what 
you  have  done  for  the  baby.  But,  now  that  I 
try,  I  cannot  tell  you ;  all  my  words  deny  me. 
Her  father  will  see  you  at  once,  and  express  to 
you  our  affectionate  gratitude  for  the  professional 
skill  and  the  personal  kindness  which  have  saved 
our  child.  I  expect  him  now,  every  minute. 

"  Yours  gratefully  and  as  ever  sincerely, 

"  MARNA  HERWIN." 

December  the  twelfth. 

I  HAVE  been  shut  in  so  much  with  the  baby, 
lately,  that  I  have  read  rather  more  than  usual. 
I  hoped  this  would  please  Dana,  but  I  can't  say 
that  he  has  seemed  aware  of  any  accumulated  in- 
tellectual force  in  me.  He  says  I  am  narrowing 
to  a  domestic  horizon.  Thinking  to  amuse  him 
to-day,  I  carried  him  this,  from  an  old  author : 

Woman  ought  every  morning  to  put  on  the  slippers  of 
humility,  the  shift  of  decorum,  the  corset  of  charity,  the 
garters  of  steadfastness,  the  pins  of  patience.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  But  it  is  by  no  means  proved  that  even  then  a  man 
would  not  find  his  wife  a  little  overdressed. 

He  laughed. 

"  That  makes  a  good   point,"  he   said.      "  A 


152     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

fixed  sense  of  moral  superiority  has  a  tendency 
to  become  tiresome.  A  fellow  resents  being 
always  put  in  the  wrong." 

"  Even  if  he  is  wrong  *?  "  I  asked. 

"  Possibly  because  he  is  wrong,"  replied  my 
husband,  with  a  changed  expression.  He  glanced 
over  the  book,  and  left  the  room  abruptly.  I  saw 
him  go  over  to  the  Curtises'  on  his  way  to  the 
trolley;  there  were  fifteen  minutes  to  spare.  I 
did  not  feel  at  all  surprised  —  perhaps  not  really 
altogether  sorry — that  he  did  not  spend  those 
fifteen  minutes  with  me.  Once  I  should  have 
grieved.  I  could  hear  him  playing  a  duet  with 
Minnie,  some  rollicking  thing.  He  says  she 
accompanies  very  finely;  his  violin  has  been 
over  there  for  some  time.  After  he  had  gone,  I 
took  up  the  book,  which  he  had  laid  face  down 
upon  the  baby's  crib.  His  swift  and  slender 
pencil-point  had  run  beside  these  words : 

Only  a  saint  can  endure  a  wearing  woman. 

"  December  the  thirteenth. 

"My  DEAR  DANA:  Will  you  be  patient  with 
one  of  my  constitutional  notes'?  It  is  a  good 
while  since  I  have  written  you  any,  for  I  see  that 
they  sometimes  annoy  you  in  these  days,  and  in- 
deed I  do  not  mean  to  be  troublesome.  But  do 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      153 

you  realize,  my  dear,  how  hard  it  is  becoming 
for  us  to  talk  ?  I  so  often  displease  you,  God 
knows  why.  Or  you  hurt  me,  though  I  am  sure 
you  do  not  mean  to.  I  find  sometimes  that  if  I 
have  anything  of  any  consequence  to  say  to  you, 
I  must  write  it,  or  not  say  it  at  all.  You  call  it 
second  nature  in  me  to  write  my  heart  out.  I 
wonder  if  it  is  first  nature,  and  speech  only  the 
second  one  ? 

**  At  all  events,  I  found  the  sentence  you  had 
marked  in  that  old  English  book  yesterday.  I 
think  you  can  understand  that  it  has  troubled 
me  a  little.  Do  you  mind  telling  me,  Dana, 
what  you  meant  by  marking  it  ? 
"  Your  loving 

"  MARNA,  Wife." 

"  Thursday  afternoon. 

"  DEAR  DANA  :  If  you    have  really  forgotten 
what  sentence  it  was,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said. 

"  MARNA." 

Friday  evening. 

DID  he  forget?  Had  he  truly  forgotten?  If 
so,  either  I  am  "  too  strenuous,"  as  he  calls  me, 
or  he  was  too  frivolous.  If  not,  then  I  am  not 
strenuous  enough,  and  my  husband  was  not  — 
quite  —  no,  no,  no  !  Forever,  no  !  Not  to  my 


154     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

own  heart,  not  to  this  secret  page,  will  I  pro- 
nounce the  word. 

A  "  wearing  woman "  ?  She  who  was  the 
dearest,  the  sweetest,  the  gentlest,  the  most  ten- 
der, the  loveliest  of  girls,  the  noblest  of  wives  — 
to  him  *?  I  who  had  all  the  superlatives  of  love 
crowded  at  my  feet,  treasures  heaped  for  my  sake 
in  a  passion  of  such  adoring  madness  as  an  older 
and  wiser  woman  than  I  might  have  spent  her- 
self upon,  and  must  have  trusted  —  I,  Marna 
Trent,  once  free  and  glad,  now  afraid  to  own  to 
my  own  soul  how  sad  I  am  —  now  bond-slave 
to  this  man  for  my  love's  sake,  and  for  his  —  do  I 
wear  upon  my  husband  *? 

Then  God  help  us,  both  the  man  and  the 
woman,  if  this  be  true  ! 

If  I  had  been  like  some  girls  I  have  seen,  if  I 
had  not  cared,  or  taken  pains  to  please  him  — 
Why,  I  know  a  young  wife  who  danced  all 
night  one  night  when  her  husband  lay  battling 
for  his  life  at  the  crisis  of  typhoid  pneumonia, 
and  he  lived  too,  poor  fellow.  Even  in  our  own 
set,  and  we  are  not  at  all  "  smart,"  thank  Heaven ! 
such  things  go  on  as  I  cannot,  I  cannot  understand 
—  other  men  and  other  pleasures,  any  other 
pleasures  but  those  he  shares  with  her,  and  their 
children  abandoned  to  nurses,  and  a  wall  of  snow 
forming  all  the  time  between  the  husband  and 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      155 

the  wife ;  glittering  snow,  beautiful,  carved,  like 
the  mattress  that  Catharine  of  Russia  presented 
as  a  bridal  gift  to  some  persons  whose  marriage 
she  did  not  favor,  and  the  mattress  was  found  to 
be  cut  out  of  solid  ice.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  AND  yet,  if  a  woman  does  not  make  a  man 
happy,  has  she  any  right  to  assume  that  it  is  his 
fault1?  It  seems  to  me  as  if  the  blame  must  be 
my  own,  in  some  perplexing  way  that  I  do  not 
understand.  If  my  mother  were  alive,  I  suppose 
she  could  tell  me  where  I  am  wrong.  To  whom 
can  I  turn?  The  popular  creed  that  married 
people  should  never  seek  advice  of  any  third 
person  seems  to  me  a  doubtful  dogma.  The 
two-in-one  life  tends,  by  a  subtle  chemistry  the 
formula  of  which  is  too  abstruse  for  me,  to  defi- 
nitely distinct  points  of  view,  and  only  the  ideal 
oneness  can  reconcile  these;  if  not  reconciled, 
they  may  need  a  third  view  as  much  as  hydrogen 
and  oxygen  need  an  electric  spark  to  combine 
them.  There  are  times  when  I  think  that  Dana 
is  wholly  in  the  wrong,  because  his  offense  is  so 
obvious.  There  are  whole  weeks  when  I  try  to 
feel  myself  in  error,  implicit  if  not  explicit.  My 
standards  of  right  and  wrong  are  wavering,  like 
flags  in  the  breeze;  serving  to  show  only  which 
way  the  wind  is,  and  sometimes  so  twisted 


156    CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

around  their  poles  that  they  are  of  no  sort  of  use 
—  as  flags.  Then,  there  is  more  or  less  wet 
weather,  when  they  hang  limp  and  soaked. 

I  SAW  a  steam-carriage  the  other  day  take  fire 
from  its  own  gasolene,  owing  to  some  defect  in 
the  machinery ;  it  burned  up,  yet  it  did  not  ex- 
plode; the  sealed  tank  remained  true  to  its  duty. 
Is  it  miracle  or  science  that  married  happiness 
may  come  so  near  destruction  and  yet  retain  the 
sealed  tank  —  fire  within  fire  —  solid  and  safe  ? 

IF  he  is  right,  then  I  must  be  radically  wrong. 
God  knows,  if  He  knows  anything  about  me, 
how  much  I  would  rather  suffer  than  not  to  be 
right  in  this  subtle  and  fatal  contention  which 
marriage  evolves  from  love.  Or,  again,  I  would, 
how  gladly,  be  proved  to  be  in  the  wrong,  if  that 
would  make  him  right.  I  do  not  ask  to  be  this 
or  that,  if  only  he  is  blameless.  Sometimes  I 
think  nothing  else  in  life  matters  at  all. 

A    NATURE    may    crumble    from    sheer    dishar- 
mony in  its  own  elements.     A  man  may  be  a 
beautiful  amalgam :  gold  on  his  brow,  and  iron 
in  his  arms ;  but  if  his  feet  are  clay,  he  falls. 
Women  kiss  the  clay,  and  cover  it  with  their 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      157 

hair,  and  baptize  it  with  their  tears,  even  as  she 
of  the  sacred  story  kissed  the  Holy  Feet,  as  white 
as  marble,  and  as  strong,  which  trod  the  dust  of 
Palestine  patiently  —  never  any  less  the  feet  of 
a  man  because  they  left  the  imprint  of  the  God. 

I  READ  to-day  about  a  vine  that  is  impelled  by 
hunger  and  thirst.  "  During  a  severe  drought, 
if  you  place  a  basin  of  water  at  night  say  two 
feet  to  the  left  or  right  of  a  stray  vine,  in  the 
morning  it  will  be  found  bathing  in  the  basin!" 
It  was  a  squash-vine,  by  the  way. 

Camille  Flammarion  said  that  he  knew  "  an 
heroic  jasmine  which  went  eight  times  through 
a  board  that  kept  the  light  away  from  it."  Some 
teasing  person  would  put  back  the  jasmine  in  the 
shade,  "  hoping  to  wear  out  the  flower's  energy, 
but  he  did  not  succeed." 

If  a  woman  were  a  jasmine,  she  would  be 
"  heroic."  If  I  were  a  squash,  I  should  at  least 
be  respected  for  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  my 
nature. 

December  the  twenty-third. 

POOR  Fanny  Freer  came  here  to-day,  for  I  have 
not  been  very  well.  I  kept  her  to  luncheon, 
and  gave  up  everything  else  and  sat  with  her  as 
long  as  she  could  stay.  She  has  not  many  pa- 


158     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

tients,  and  sewed  for  Marion  in  the  afternoon. 
She  carries  herself  with  a  touching  dignity.  I 
watched  her  dimple  and  her  bow-and-arrow 
mouth,  and  then  the  lines  on  her  forehead,  as  if  I 
had  seen  a  baby  crucified.  Neither  of  us  men- 
tioned her  husband  in  any  way,  though  she  spoke 
of  her  children  freely.  We  talked  a  little  about 
the  perplexities  of  modern  life,  as  they  affect 
women.  I  think  I  expected  to  find  her  embit- 
tered, or  inclined  to  rate  marriage  by  her  own 
pitiable  experience.  Nothing  could  be  further 
from  the  fact.  I  think  she  makes  a  point  of  her 
sweet  reasonableness  —  a  definite  struggle.  And 
she  thinks  there  is  no  country  where  there  are 
more  happy  marriages  than  in  America. 

Then  I  suggested  that  women  are  apt  to  reason 
too  much  from  personal  data.  I  did  not  add 
that  she  had  developed  the  force  of  character  to 
rise  above  this  racial  trait,  but  I  wished  to  do  so. 
Fanny  is  one  of  those  rose-petals  that  unexpect- 
edly produce  the  strength  of  oak-leaves;  not 
falling  before  storm  and  sleet,  but  holding  the 
harder.  One  sees  such  women. 

I  asked  her  —  she  has  had  some  experience  in 
her  business  in  town,  before  she  moved  out  here 
—  whether  she  found  patients  infatuated  with 
their  doctors. 

"  Very  seldom,"  replied  the  masseuse,  "  unless 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     159 

now  and  then  a  married  woman  whose  husband 
neglects  her  because  she  is  sick."  She  added 
that  a  doctor  would  find  it  hard  work  to  culti- 
vate illusions  about  his  patients,  and  that  this 
fact  alone  was  enough  to  clear  the  atmosphere. 

I  never  cared  for  Fanny  at  school,  but  now  I 
could  love  her  if  I  had  time.  When  she  went 
away,  I  wanted  to  throw  my  arms  about  her  and 
cry: 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  How  do  you  bear  it  *? 
Why  are  you  alive  *?  " 

Instead,  we  talked  of  neuralgia  and  patterns. 
I  never  knew  anything  about  patterns  before.  It 
seems  there  is  a  vast  world  where  these  things 
are  important  to  women. 

I  wonder  if  I  do  not  overweigh  my  troubles. 
Dana  says  I  do.  He  says  I  have  a  genius  for 
being  unhappy.  Yet  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  did 
not  ask  much  to  make  me  happy  —  a  kind  word, 
a  kiss,  some  little  thoughtful  act.  All  a  woman 
wants  is  to  be  considered,  to  be  valued.  All  she 
wants  is  love  —  all  she  wants  is  the  Life  Eternal. 
I  suppose  this  is  an  immoderate  demand  —  some- 
thing like  the  demand  of  a  moth  for  personal 
immortality. 

December  the  twenty-fifth. 

CHRISTMAS  again !  I  have  had  a  happy  day. 
Dana  has  been  at  home  all  day,  and  last  evening 


160     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

he  came  in  laughing,  and  splendid,  with  Marion's 
first  Christmas  tree  across  his  shoulder  —  he 
handsome  enough  to  break  a  woman's  heart  if 
he  did  not  love  her,  and  perhaps  (God  knows)  if 
he  did.  Mine  melted  before  the  vision  of  him 
as  the  ice  was  melting  on  the  tree-house.  It  is  a 
South  Carolina  Christmas,  and  needs  only  a  wild 
pink  azalea  in  the  tree-house,  or  the  scent  of  jas- 
mine on  the  wet,  warm  air. 

"  You  beauty !  "  I  cried.  "  You  look  like  the 
Santa  Claus  ideal.  I  've  always  thought  it  a 
mistake  to  make  an  old  man  of  him.  You  are 
young,  immortal  fatherhood.  Kiss  her,  Dana ! " 

I  held  the  baby  up,  and  he  kissed  her  raptur- 
ously ;  then  he  put  her  down  and  took  me.  No, 
it  was  not  rapturous  —  no.  And  yet  I  think  it 
was  love.  I  tried  not  to  think,  not  to  reason 
about  it.  I  have  learned  that  it  is  not  wise  for  a 
woman  to  philosophize  about  love,  and  that  it  is 
dangerous  for  a  wife  to  do  so. 

Job  began  to  whine  when  my  husband  kissed 
me,  as  he  has  always  done  from  the  very  first; 
he  never  gets  used  to  it,  and  lately  he  has  had 
something  of  a  respite  from  this  source  of  mel- 
ancholy. There  is  that  in  the  dog's  constancy 
which  touches  me,  I  must  say.  He  has  become 
accustomed  to  the  baby,  though  he  still  cherishes 
a  smoldering  jealousy  of  her.  But  his  feeling 


'WITH  MARION'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS  TREE  ACROSS  HIS  SHOULDER." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      161 

about  Dana  is  something  finer  than  jealousy.  In 
fact,  Job  never  accepted  the  man  for  the  master; 
why,  then,  he  reasons,  should  I  ? 

Dana  and  I  covered  the  Landseer  dogs  to- 
night (they  had  grown  too  shabby)  with  a  dado 
or  frieze  of  Greek  figures.  I  cut  up  an  old 
book  of  Parthenon  plates  for  it,  and  Dana  helped 
me  paste  them  on;  he  did  not  once  object  —  he 
was  very  kind.  And  he  patted  the  Landseer 
dogs,  and  called  them  David  and  Dora,  and  Job 
growled  and  snarled  at  them,  and  Marion  laughed 
like  a  brook  at  Job :  she  has  developed  her 
father's  laugh.  He  has  given  her  a  boy  doll  (of 
all  things)  nearly  as  large  as  herself,  and  she  is 
flirting  with  it  like  a  summer  girl  with  the 
only  man  in  the  hotel.  Dana  named  the  doll 
Dombey. 

We  went  to  Father's  after  Marion  was  in  bed, 
for  he  is  too  feeble  to  get  over  here ;  and  I  read 
to  him  awhile.  Dana  asked  me  if  I  minded  his 
running  over  to  the  Curtises'  for  some  music 
while  I  was  reading.  I  said,  "Not  in  the  least." 
I  was  so  pleased  at  his  asking  me  that  I  did  n't 
care  at  all.  And  when  we  came  home  he  sat 
down  at  his  own  piano,  and  tossed  his  curling 
head,  and  sang : 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest. 


162     CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE 

Then  he  wheeled  on   the  piano-stool  with  his 
beautiful,  best  look,  and  crushed  me  to  his  heart. 
"  You  're  a  dear  old  girl !  "  he  said. 

December  the  thirty-first. 

A  SUBMERGED  country !  The  Atlantis  of  the 
New  England  climate  has  evaded  us,  and  it  is 
incredible  that  azaleas  can  swing  their  pink 
lamps  anywhere,  or  that  jasmine  can  breathe  its 
heart  out  on  any  loving  air.  The  tree-house  is 
stiff  with  icicles  this  morning,  and  the  world  has 
got  itself  into  armor,  and  stirs  formidably  and 
heavily,  like  a  medieval  lord  who  kisses  his  lady 
in  the  evening  and  leaves  her  in  the  morning  for 
the  wars. 

The  transformation  happened  in  the  night. 
It  was  still  warm  last  evening,  and  Dana  brought 
Minnie  Curtis  over  to  play  for  him  here;  but 
the  furnace  was  overheated,  and  they  went  out 
on  Ararat  and  serenaded  me,  instead ;  he  played 
his  violin,  and  they  both  sang  "  Where'er  you 
walk,"  and  some  other  things  that  he  used  to 
sing  to  me.  He  asked  me  if  I  did  not  enjoy  it, 
and  said  he  thought  he  was  giving  me  a  treat. 

*'  Why  in  thunder  did  n't  you  come  out  with 
us  ? "  he  asked  when  he  came  in,  after  taking 
Minnie  home. 

"  You  knew  Marion  had  one  of  her  throats," 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     163 

I  said.  "  I  could  n't  leave  her  —  even  if  I  had 
been  invited." 

"  A  wife  should  never  wait  to  be  invited"  he 
retorted.  "  It  looked  queer,  that  's  all.  A  wife 
ought  to  think  how  things  look." 

"And  a  husband?"  I  ventured.  "What 
about  him  ?  " 

The  moment  I  had  said  it,  I  would  have  un- 
said it  at  any  estimable  cost.  I  think  it  was 
George  Eliot  who  suggested  that  half  the  misery 
of  women's  lives  would  be  prevented  if  they 
could  only  teach  themselves  to  keep  back  the 
things  which  they  had  resolved  not  to  say.  But 
a  resolution  is  a  mathematical  matter, —  takes 
perceptible  time, —  and  my  fate  was  too  swift 
for  me. 

"  I  should  n't  have  thought,"  observed  my 
husband,  coldly,  "  that  you  had  it  in  you,  Marna, 
to  be  a  jealous  woman." 

Then,  indeed,  I  turned  upon  him. 

"I?  Jealous?  Of  Minnie  Curtis?  ...  I 
should  as  soon  think  of  being  jealous  of 
Dombey ! " 

"  I  would  n't  insult  your  neighbors,  if  I  were 
you,"  he  blazed.  "  A  rag  doll  — " 

"  Dombey  is  n't  rag;  he  's  wax,"  I  interrupted. 

"  Wax,  then,"  said  Dana,  pettishly.  He  went 
into  his  own  room  and  shut  the  door  —  hard. 


164     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

This  morning  I  scarcely  dared  to  speak  to 
him,  he  was  so  manifestly  offended,  and  he  went 
to  his  day's  work  without  the  ceremony  of  a 
kiss.  That  a  kiss  should  ever  become  a  cere- 
mony —  is  this  most  pitiable  or  most  merciful  ? 

WHEN  a  liner  is  in  fear  of  invisible  icebergs  she 
takes  the  temperature  of  the  sea  to  test  the  ques- 
tion of  their  vicinity. 

When  my  husband  came  home  to  dinner,  I 
took  all  the  temperatures  I  could,  dipping  here 
and  there,  and  recording  my  poor  little  ther- 
mometers, as  women  do.  Half  the  time  I  am 
sawn  asunder  by  the  conflict  between  love  and 
self-respect.  In  men  these  two  are  one  flesh ;  in 
women  —  oh,  in  women  they  must  be  sometimes, 
or  the  race  would  be  exterminated  by  civil  war. 
(I  think  there  is  a  declaration  of  war  between 
my  metaphors,  but,  thank  Heaven,  I  am  not 
writing  for  the  magazines.) 

At  all  events,  I  found  a  field  of  icebergs  driv- 
ing straight  across  the  bows,  and  put  the  ship 
about.  Marion  and  Job  and  I  are  spending  the 
evening  up  here  by  ourselves  —  and  Dombey. 
Marion  is  asleep  in  her  crib,  and  Dombey  re- 
poses beside  her,  as  usual,  with  his  head  hanging 
over  the  crib-rail,  and  his  feet  on  the  pillow.  I 
have  some  doubts  of  the  effects  of  this  habit 
upon  my  daughter's  manners,  Dombey  is  so  big 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     165 

and  so  very  boy ;  but  Dana  thinks  it  an  excel- 
lent joke.  Marion  has  begun  to  demand  a  little 
brother,  and  perhaps  Dombey  may  fill  the  defi- 
ciency. Dombey  has  become  a  painful  subject 
to  me  all  at  once,  since  last  night.  I  could  burn 
him  up,  or  snip  him  to  pieces.  I  took  Marion 
to-day  to  see  a  big  lady  doll  in  a  shop,  in  hopes 
of  effecting  an  honorable  exchange ;  but  though 
the  lady  doll,  two  feet  high,  and  glorious  in  a 
wedding-dress  spangled  with  gold-dust,  hung 
upon  the  arm  of  a  red  bridegroom  in  a  fireman's 
uniform,  my  daughter  clung  obstinately  to  Dom- 
bey. I  must  say  I  respected  her  loyalty,  while 
I  cannot  say  that  I  did  not  pity  her  for  it. 
Where  will  it  take  her  twenty  years  hence  ? 

Does  Dana  expect  me  to  come  down  and 
storm  his  tenderness  *?  Must  a  woman  make  all 
the  advance^  after  marriage,  as  she  must  make 
none  before  *?  Then  shall  we  never  be  happy, 
for  I  cannot,  cannot  do  it. 

Must  she  always  be  the  first  to  institute  recon- 
ciliations ?  Must  she  forever  forswear  herself, 
and  say, "  I  was  wrong,"  though  she  knows,  on 
the  honor  of  her  own  soul,  that  she  was  right  *? 

Thursday  evening. 

VOLTAIRE  said  that  a  man  could  never  be  in  the 
wrong  if  he  made  the  first  advance  toward  an 
offended  woman. 


166     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

NOTE    SENT    BY   LUELLA 

*'  DEAR  DARLING  :  Don't  let  us  make  each 
other  miserable  any  longer !  I  cannot  bear  it. 
My  heart  will  break,  to  live  this  way.  I  will 
come  down  if  you  wish  me  to  —  or  perhaps, 
even,  you  would  come  up  ?  I  will  do  whichever 
you  wish,  whatever  you  want,  anything  to  make 
you  happy,  Dear.  Only  be  kind  to  me,  Dana ! 
Only  be  tender  and  loving,  as  you  used  to  be, 
and  I  will  try  harder  to  please  you,  to  do  as  you 
wish,  to  be  what  you  require  : 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands, 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands. 

Was  I  wrong  about  Minnie  ?  Did  I  speak 
petulantly?  I  did  not  mean  to.  I  don't  care 
how  much  you  play  duets  with  Minnie,  indeed 
I  don't.  I  am  not  one  of  the  foolish  folk.  I  scorn 
a  jealous  wife  as  much  as  you  do.  And  that  was 
why  I  felt  so —  But  never  mind  that.  Forgive 
me  if  I  was  wrong,  Dana,  and  let  us  be  happy 
again !  We  used  to  be  happy.  We  know  we 
can.  We  are  not  chasing  an  experiment,  but 
holding  an  experience. 

"Darling,  shall  I  come  down  to   you?      Or 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      167 

would  you  rather —  Do  whatever  you  would 
like  best,  only  love 

"  Your 

"  WIFE." 

An  hour  later. 

I  HAVE  stopped  crying, —  it  waked  the  baby, — 
and  have  lain  crushed  upon  the  pillows  as  long 
as  I  can  bear  it.  He  sent  a  note  by  Luella  — 
the  first  he  has  ever  written  to  me  in  the  same 
house.  He  did  not  come  up  at  all.  I  pin  the 
note  upon  this  page. 

*'  DEAR  MARNA  :  I  don't  feel  very  happy  to- 
night, and  I  doubt  if  we  can  amuse  each  other 
successfully.  Your  note  is  all  right,  and  I  ac- 
cept your  apology,  of  course,  and  we  won't  say 
any  more  about  it.  But  I  think  I  '11  go  to  town 
for  the  evening,  and  come  out  on  the  last  elec- 
tric. If  I  don't  get  out,  don't  worry.  I  should 
be  at  the  club.  Go  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

"AfPately,  DANA." 

A  GREAT  mood  has  taken  the  weather  since  sun- 
set. The  ice  has  suddenly  yielded  again  (like  a 
woman),  and  a  storm  is  coming  up ;  it  will  be  a 
fight  between  sleet  and  tears  all  night.  The  wind 
raves  about  the  tree-house,  and  the  banshee  in  my 


i68    CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

room  begins  to  moan  slowly  and  subtly,  as  if  she 
were  trying  her  voice  with  a  view  to  a  mighty  out- 
cry by  and  by.  The  soul  of  the  storm  is  in  me, 
as  it  was  in  the  beginning  and  ever  shall  be. 
Worn  and  worried  as  I  am,  half  disillusioned  of 
myself,  yet  would  I  escape  myself  for  the  storm's 
sake,  and  because  I  feel  in  every  fiber  of  my  be- 
ing as  if  it  would  shelter  me.  I  would  fling  the 
window  up,  and  let  myself  go,  and  ride  upon  the 
wings  of  the  east  wind,  for  it  understands  me, 
and  I  love  it,  and  I  would  trust  it,  though  it 
took  me  God  knows  where.  And  I  would  be 
borne  into  some  wide  caverns  of  the  night, 
where  love  is  always  tender  (being  love),  and 
tenderness,  because  it  is  gentle,  is  always  true; 
and  where  a  woman,  lest  she  perish,  is  cherished 
by  the  mystery  that  won  her. 

.  .  .  And  what,  pray,  would  become  of  my 
daughter"?     And  Dombey? 

January  the  twentieth. 

SOME  people  came  to  dinner  at  Father's  yester- 
day, with  wives ;  and  he  asked  me  to  come  over 
and  help  him  out.  Dana  was  away,  so  I  went 
alone.  After  dinner  the  ladies  discussed  various 
social  phenomena  of  the  day;  they  did  this  with 
delicacy  and  earnestness;  they  spoke  of  noble 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      169 

friendships  as  distinct  from  ignoble  follies,  and 
one  of  them  suggested  that  salvation  from  the 
last  might  lie  partly  in  the  existence  of  the  first. 
The  other  hesitated. 

"Friendship  needs  nourishment  as  well  as 
love,"  she  said,  "and  one  goes  hungry  in  a 
week." 

"  I  should  call  it  —  about  —  five  days,"  re- 
plied the  other,  slowly.  Then  they  both  laughed, 
and  changed  the  subject  —  to  the  religious  views 
of  the  new  governor. 

I  could  not  join  in  the  conversation  intelli- 
gently, and  I  did  not  find  it  amusing.  I  have 
never  felt  the  need  of  friendship.  My  husband 
has  always  been  my  friend.  Now  —  is  he  so 
much  as  that  *?  He  seems  to  be  eluding  my 
real  life  by  a  strange  and  fatal  process.  I  do  not 
know  how  to  account  for  it,  or  how  to  define  it. 
It  is  as  if  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  and 
saw  him  disappearing  from  my  sight,  a  hundred 
feet  below,  drawn  down  by  a  quicksand  of  the 
true  nature  of  which  he  is,  or  chooses  to  appear, 
ignorant.  The  descent  is  subtle  and  slow;  it  is 
not  even  dignified  by  the  anguish  of  conscious 
death;  debonair,  and  smiling  steadily,  he  sinks 
by  inches.  I  can  even  hear  him  sing,  as  he  suc- 
cumbs without  a  struggle: 


170     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee! 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old  — 

If  I  sprang,  and  dashed  myself  down  to  reach 
him  —  what  then  *?  He  would  probably  stop 
singing  (he  has  stopped,  this  minute,  abruptly 
and  unhappily)  and  observe  without  a  smile : 
"  A  wife  should  not  annoy  her  husband." 
It  is  possible  that  he  might  select  the  word 
"pursue";  he  is  capable  of  it;  and  that  would 
outrage  me  so  that  I  should  quite  regret  my 
amiable  impulse.  If  we  could  sink  together, 
there  would  be  some  comfort  in  it.  I  am  sure  I 
should  not  mind  a  quicksand  in  the  least.  I 
would  rather  suffer  with  him  than  be  happy  with- 
out him.  But  he — he  would  be  happy  at  any 
cost.  I  do  not  think  it  is  at  all  clear  to  him 
whether  default  of  happiness  is  to  be  attributed 
to  the  institution  of  marriage  or  is  (more  simply) 
my  fault. 

Friday. 

DANA  has  lost  his  engagement-ring;  he  says  the 
tourmalins  were  growing  shabby,  anyway,  and 
one  of  them  was  broken. 

"  Sunday  evening. 

"My  DEAR  DANA:  After  what  has  happened 
to-day,  I  cannot  —  no,  I   cannot  see  you  again 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     171 

to-night.  Luella  will  bring  up  Marion's  supper, 
and  I  do  not  want  any.  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you 
alone  on  Sunday  evening. 

"  No,  I  shall  not  say  anything  to  Father.  I 
must  bear  it  as  best  I  can. 

"Your  WIFE." 

"  Midnight. 

"  OH,  ask  me  to  forgive  you !  Ask  me, 
Dana!  For  love's  sake  and  your  own  sake  — 
not  for  mine.  All  my  being  stretches  out  its 
arms  to  you.  I  would  forget  —  would  love  you, 
trust  you,  and  begin  again,  if  you  will  try  to  be 
more  patient  with  me,  if  you  will  remember  to 
be  kind  to 

"  Your 

"  MISERABLE  MARNA." 

March  the  thirteenth. 

DANA  has  the  grippe,  the  real  thing;  he  has 
been  sick  for  ten  days,  and  persistently  refuses  to 
have  a  doctor,  so  of  course  it  has  gone  hard  with 
him,  poor  fellow.  I  have  taken  care  of  him  as 
best  I  could.  I  have  not  had  my  clothes  off  for 
three  nights,  for  he  needs  a  good  many  things, 
and  one  takes  cold  so  easily,  getting  in  and  out 
of  a  warm  bed.  I  brush  his  hair  a  good  deal,  to 
make  him  sleepy,  and  I  read  to  him  hours  at  a 


172     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

time.  A  man  is  so  unused  to  suffering  that  a 
woman,  if  she  loves  him,  cannot  help  being  pa- 
tient with  him ;  that  is  a  matter  of  course.  If 
she  can  help  it,  if  she  resents  the  natural  irrita- 
bility of  his  race  too  much,  I  am  almost  prepared 
to  say  that  she  does  not  love  him. 

Sometimes,  wherr  I  am  very  tired,  when  I  can 
scarcely  keep  on  my  feet,  and  he  does  seem 
almost  unreasonable,  I  say  to  myself: 

"  Suppose  you  had  never  had  the  right  to 
take  care  of  him?  Suppose  he  were  sick  in 
some  remote  place,  and  you  could  not  get  to 
him?" 

An  hour  ago  he  fell  heavily  asleep,  for  he 
insisted  on  taking  a  dose  of  laudanum  (I  could 
not  help  it;  he  will,  now  and  then,  when  he  has 
pain  to  bear),  and  I  was  on  the  edge  of  the  bed 
beside  him,  for  I  had  been  trying  to  magnetize 
the  pain  in  his  head  with  passes  of  my  hands. 
I  could,  for  the  first  year  after  we  were  married, 
quite  often,  but  not  lately.  I  had  hoped  to  fore- 
stall the  laudanum  in  that  way  to-night;  but  he 
would  not  give  me  the  chance ;  he  would  not 
wait.  So  I  was  sitting  cramped  and  crooked 
(that  is  why  I  am  writing,  to  try  to  drive  the 
ache  out  of  my  body  by  a  little  exercise  of  my 
brain),  and  his  handsome  head  lay  upon  my  arm 
and  shoulder,  and  his  curling  hair  stirred  with  my 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      173 

breath.  He  looked  more  than  ill  —  he  looked 
lonely  and  wretched ;  and  for  the  first  time  I  saw 
lines  across  his  forehead,  the  real  carving  of  life 
cut  clearly. 

"  He,  too,  has  unhappiness,"  I  thought.  "  It 
is  not  I  alone.  In  marriage  one  cannot  do  any- 
thing alone  —  not  even  suffer." 

"  You  poor,  poor  boy ! "  I  thought.  And  I 
laid  my  cheek  upon  his,  and  then  I  kissed  him 
softly.  He  did  not  wake,  and  I  kissed  him  a 
good  many  times  —  as  I  used  to  do.  He  did 
not  know  it.1 

"  July  the  sixth. 

"  OH,  Dana,  can't  we  begin  again  ?  Is  there 
no  way  of  blazing  our  path  back  through  the 
forest  of  married  life  *?  I  tell  you,  from  my  soul, 
if  there  is  not,  we  are  lost.  I  do  not  know  how 
it  is  with  you  —  I  do  not  know  how  anything  is 
with  you  in  these  times  on  which  we  have  fallen; 
sometimes  I  think  I  understand  almost  any  other 
friend  I  have  better  than  I  do  my  husband.  But, 
for  me,  I  perish.  All  my  nature  is  astray,  a 
homeless,  hapless  thing. 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  blame  you,  Dear,  or 
throw  our  mutual  misery  too  solidly  upon  your 

1 A  three  months'  silence  precedes  the  date  of  the  next  entry,  but  no  pages 
have  been  mutilated  or  removed  from  the  manuscript.  On  the  contrary,  there 
has,  it  seems,  been  no  effort  whatever  to  add  to  the  record  in  any  way. — M.  A. 


174     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

shoulders.  I  know  that  I  was  very  young,  that 
I  gain  the  tact  of  experience  more  slowly  than 
most  wives,  that  I  crave  a  good  deal  of  tender- 
ness —  perhaps  I  am  '  exacting,'  as  you  say.  I 
know  that  I  do  not  learn  to  be  alone  readily,  and 
that  I  grieve  over  little  things.  I  am  afraid  my 
heart  is  a  ganglion,  not  a  muscle,  for  it  quivers 
and  winces  at  everything.  Indeed,  I  try  to  be 
different,  to  be  patient,  not  to  expect  too  much. 
Oh,  believe  that  I  do  try  to  be  the  kind  of 
woman  you  prefer. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  if  we  could  go  back  and 
try  all  over  again,  we  might  be  happy  yet. 
Love  does  not  die.  Love  is  the  life  everlasting. 
It  suffers  maladies  and  syncopes,  and  it  may  be 
hard  beset,  and  have  to  fight  for  its  life  —  but  it 
is  alive,  Dana,  and  it  must  be  cherished  like  any 
other  living  thing.  We  have  laws  and  penalties 
for  the  slayers  of  men.  What  court  sits  in  judg- 
ment on  the  murderers  of  love  ?  Somewhere  in 
the  spaces  and  silences  there  must  be  such  an 
inviolate  bar.  Shall  you  and  I  go  there,  hand- 
cuffed together,  waiting  judgment*?  Oh,  my 
darling,  what  can  we  plead  V  Mighty  joy  was  in 
our  power,  and  we  slew  it,  between  us.  We 
were  the  happiest  lovers,  ours  was  the  maddest, 
gladdest  bridal,  we  had  reverence  and  ecstasy, 
and  our  real  went  so  far  to  outrun  our  ideal  that 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      175 

we  left  our  ideal  behind  us  —  and  now  the  feet 
of  our  real  move  heavily,  and  the  race  is  spent. 
We  covered  the  face  of  delight  with  our  mar- 
riage pillows,  and  smothered  it  till  it  breathed  no 
more.  So  we  buried  it,  for  it  stared  upon  us. 
We  two,  man  and  woman,  elected  to  a  great 
fate,  slayers  of  a  supreme  love,  recreant  to  a 
mighty  trust  —  who  will  take  our  brief? 

"  MARNA,  a  Wife." 

"  Sunday  evening. 

"  MY    DEAR    HUSBAND  :  I    have    reached   the 
point  where  I  cannot  live  and  go  on  as  we  are. 
"  Your  loving  and  unhappy 

"  MARNA." 

"  Monday. 

"  DEAR  DANA  :  I  think  if  I  could  die,  I  should 
not  hesitate  long.  MARNA." 

"  July  the  tenth. 

"DANA  MY  DARLING:  What  happened  this 
morning  distresses  me  so  that  I  cannot  wait  till 
to-morrow,  and  you  said  you  should  not  come 
back  to-night.  What  can  I  do  for  you  to  make 
you  happier,  more  calm  ?  You  have  not  been 
yourself  for  months,  I  think.  Are  you  ill? 


176    CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

Does  something  ail  you  that  you  keep  from  me  ? 
I  am  sorry  if  I  called  you  cross  when  you  were 
suffering.  I  ought  not  to  mind  things  so  much, 
I  know.  I  think  this  terrible  weather  is  too 
much  for  you.  I  feel  it  a  little  myself.  If  I 
were  you,  I  would  go  directly  to  the  sea  some- 
where, and  I  send  this  in  to  the  office  to  propose 
it  with  all  my  heart.  I  will  not  mourn,  and  I 
will  try  not  to  miss  you. 

"  As  you  say,  we  cannot  afford  to  move  the 
whole  family ;  and  as  you  see,  I  cannot  leave 
Father  this  summer,  he  is  so  feeble.  He  spoke 
of  the  Dowe  Cottage  in  the  spring,  but  lately  he 
has  said  nothing  about  it;  he  acts  a  little 
strangely  about  his  affairs.  Has  it  ever  occurred 
to  you  that  he  has  lost  anything  —  any  property, 
I  mean?  Once  he  would  have  told  you;  but 
lately  you  have  been  so  busy,  and  you  see  so 
little  of  him.  And  he  never  talks  business  to 
me. 

"  As  long  as  Marion  keeps  well,  I  can  stand 
it.  Dear,  I  don't  mind  it  much.  I  can  take  her 
over  to  Father's,  where  the  rooms  are  large 
enough  to  shut  up ;  and  we  shall  get  along 
nicely.  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  Bar  Har- 
bor or  to  Nova  Scotia  at  once,  if  you  feel  like  it. 
"  Your  loyal  and  loving 

"  MARNA." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      177 

TELEGRAM 

"  To  Dana  Her  win, 

"  Digby,  Nova  Scotia. 

"  Yours  received.  I  did  not  mean  that  at  all. 
Oh,  try  to  understand !  MARNA." 

"  July  the  thirtieth. 

"  MY  DEAR  DANA  :  I  telegraphed  because  I 
could  not  bear  it  that  you  should  mistake  me  so. 
I  am  sure  by  this  time  that  you  will  have  re-read 
my  letter  and  my  meaning.  Must  it  come  to 
this,  that  you  and  I  need  a  new  vocabulary  to 
interpret  each  other  —  in  small,  common  matters 
like  this  ?  The  '  little  language '  of  love  we 
have  lost  the  art  of,  like  electives  one  learns  at 
school  or  college,  and  then  forgets.  But  the 
Queen's  English,  Dana !  Do  I  use  it  so  stu- 
pidly? Am  I  so  crass  with  it  that  you  cannot 
take  me  right"? 

"  Try  to  understand  me,  Dana !  A  loving 
wife  is  not  abstruse.  I  don't  feel  in  cipher.  If 
I  express  myself  so,  it  is  because  I  am  so  afraid 
of  offending  you  that  I  am  not  natural,  and  so  I 
am  not  simple.  I  do  not  feel  at  home  with  my 
own  husband.  I  try  too  hard  to  please  you, 
Dear !  I  need  so  to  be  comprehended  that  I 
cease  to  be  comprehensible. 


i;8     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  Oh,  try,  Dana,  try  to  understand 

**  Your  wholly  longing,  always  loving 

"WIFE." 

August  the  seventeenth. 

THE  date  when  a  woman  accepts  the  fact  that 
the  man  she  loves  cannot  or  will  not  understand 
her,  and  that  she  must  abandon  the  attempt  to 
make  him  do  so,  is  one  of  the  birthdays  of  ex- 
perience. These  are  as  definite  as  the  other  sort 
of  birthday  —  as  my  daughter's,  for  instance, 
which  occurs  to-day. 

I  don't  know  whether  her  father  has  forgotten 
it,  or  whether  his  letter  is  delayed.  He  has  been 
in  Washington  on  some  business  (I  do  not  know 
what;  I  have  given  up  asking  now;  he  gave  up 
telling  some  time  ago),  and  was  so  overcome  by 
the  cruel  heat  of  the  place  that  he  has  fled  to 
Maine  to  cool.  I  think  I  read  yesterday  that 
the  President  is  in  the  Rangeleys  on  a  fishing- 
trip.  Dana  knows  the  President,  who  was  a 
friend  of  Senator  Herwin's,  and  I  have  fancied 
that  he  values  this  important  acquaintance  as 
one  which  he  does  not  owe  to  my  father.  It  is  a 
week  since  I  have  heard  from  Dana.  I  must 
say  it  occurs  to  me  to  wonder  whether  he  has 
gone  fishing  with  the  President.  In  that  case, 
letters  will  be  uncertain.  Dana  likes  to  do  the 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      179 

uncertain,  and  I  will  try  to  be  prepared  for  any- 
thing. 

I  have  bought  the  big  lady  doll  for  Marion, 
but  she  regards  this  acquisition  to  her  family  in- 
differently. Her  devotion  to  Dombey  is  unassail- 
able. In  deference  to  this  feminine  weakness,  I 
contributed  a  golf-suit  to  Dombey's  wardrobe. 
She  has  named  the  lady  doll  Banny  Doodle  —  a 
mystical  appellation,  intended,  I  think,  to  be  a 
term  of  reproach.  She  is  two  years  old  to-night. 
She  calls  her  father  "  Pretty  Popper,"  and  cried, 
when  she  woke  up,  because  Pretty  Popper  had 
not  come  home.  To  be  exact,  she  calls  him 
"  Pity  Popper." 

September  the  fifteenth. 

I  ONCE  knew  a  discontented  woman  who  lost 
an  eye  and  lived  in  danger  of  perfect  blind- 
ness. She  became  suddenly  cheerful  and 
charming. 

"  It  is  so  much  to  keep  one  eye,"  she  said. 

It  is  two  weeks  since  he  came  back.  He  did 
go  fishing  with  the  President,  and  I  heard  no- 
thing from  him  for  ten  days;  but  that  seems 
now  so  small  a  trouble,  all  my  troubles  are  such 
dwarfs  beside  this  which  has  happened,  that  I 
look  upon  myself  with  contempt  for  having  ever 
been  disturbed  by  them.  Life  seems  to  be  a  long 
chromatic  scale,  all  its  major  notes  expressed  by 


i8o     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

its  minors,  or  the  other  way  if  you  choose.  Suf- 
fering is  purely  relative. 

Who  said,  "  The  young  are  only  happy  when 
they  experience  pleasure;  the  old  are  happy 
when  they  are  free  from  pain  "  ?  I  have  ceased 
to  be  young,  but  have  not  learned  to  be  old. 

My  husband  is  going  as  consul  to  Monte- 
video. The  appointment  was  offered  him,  vir- 
tually, on  that  fishing-trip,  and  he  formally  ac- 
cepted it  the  day  before  he  came  home.  He  did 
this  without  consulting  me. 

September  the  seventeenth. 

IT  is  only  by  fragments,  as  I  have  the  strength 
or  can  compass  the  courage,  that  I  can  write 
anything  about  it.  Yet  I  have  a  confused  con- 
sciousness that  I  had  better  record  (though  to 
what  end  God  knows)  some  of  the  events  of 
these  days  —  which  flee  by  me  like  racers  run- 
ning on  thorns,  blood-tracked. 

He  began  the  night  he  got  home,  nervously, 
as  if  he  were  flayed  to  have  it  over : 

"  Mama,  I  have  accepted  an  appointment." 
"  A  pleasant  one,  I  hope,  Dana  *?  " 
"To  me  —  yes.     I  don't  think  I  have  been 
well  lately.     I  want  travel,  and  distance,  and  a 
pretty  abrupt  change  of  scene.     It  is  a  foreign 
appointment." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     181 

One  quick  "  Ah!  "  escaped  me.  After  that  I 
did  not  speak  for  a  good  while.  I  took  up  the 
baby,  and  put  her  in  my  lap,  as  if  she  were  a 
shield  between  me  and  my  husband.  When  I 
could  not  look  at  him,  I  could  bow  my  face  on 
her  soft  hair,  and  it  steadied  me  a  little. 

"  The  President  was  glad  to  oblige  my  father's 
son.  He  would  have  done  something  different, 
something  better,  I  think,  if  he  could.  There 
was  no  other  post  open  but  this  just  now.  I 
don't  mind  it ;  I  want  a  different  climate  —  I  am 
really  not  well,  though  you  never  have  found  it 
out.  Besides,  I  want  something  out  of  the  com- 
mon course  —  a  new  experience  —  fresh  life.  A 
man  of  my  type  is  not  adapted  to  New  England. 
He  perishes  of  ennui  in  the  life  I  lead  here.  At 
any  rate,  I  'm  going.  I  am  going  in  October." 

"You  did  not  —  speak  to  me  —  about  it." 
My  lips  were  so  stiff  that  I  am  not  sure  they 
articulated  the  words,  but  I  thought  they  did. 
"  I  am — your  wife.  You  did  not  —  tell  me." 

"What  would  have  been  the  use*?"  he  said. 
"You  would  only  have  made  a  fuss.  My  mind 
is  quite  made.  I  am  going  to  Uruguay." 

Then  I  know  I  spoke  out,  I  think  I  cried  out : 

"  Uruguay?" 

I  held  out  the  baby  at  my  arm's  length  be- 
tween us.  I  felt  as  if  she  might,  as  if  she  must, 


182      CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

protect  me  from  what  would  happen  next.  I 
sat  staring. 

"Do  shut  your  mouth,"  he  said  fretfully. 
"  That  expression  is  not  becoming." 

I  put  the  baby  down,  for  my  head  swam;  I 
thought  I  should  drop  her.  She  ran  over  to 
htm,  calling  "  Pity  Popper ! "  and  poked  Dom- 
bey  into  his  arms  to  be  kissed.  He  did  not 
touch  them,  either  doll  or  child.  I  thought  he 
dared  not  trust  himself.  His  face  worked.  I 
think  he  said ; 

"  We  might  as  well  have  this  scene  over." 

"  And  I  ?  "  I  said.  "  And  Marion  ?  And 
Father  ?  Father  is  failing ;  he  is  a  dying  man. 
You  knew  I  could  not  leave  Father  —  now ! 
You  knew  we  could  not  take  the  baby  —  to 
Uruguay." 

"  You  can  do  as  you  please,"  he  replied  stiffly. 
"  You  are  my  wife.  You  have  the  right  to 
come,  of  course.  Or  I  have  the  right  to  ask  it, 
for  that  matter.  But  I  do  not  press  the  matter. 
I  wish  you  to  please  yourself." 

I  got  up  and  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  at  the  tree-house.  It  was  moonlight,  as  it 
was  the  night  he  kissed  me  for  the  first  time, 
and  the  shadows  from  the  vines  were  floating  over 
us.  I  could  hear  Minnie  Curtis  warbling  at  her 
piano.  She  was  practising  one  of  Dana's  songs: 


CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE       183 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold! 

I  went  back,  and  put  my  hand  upon  his  arm. 
"  Do  you  desert  me  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  threw  my  hand  off  with  an  oath. 

"  Put  me  in  the  wrong  —  as  usual !  You 
always  do.  I  'm  tired  of  your  everlasting  supe- 
riority. If  I  did  leave  you,  you  could  n't  blame 
me.  Nobody  could.  We  ought  to  be  apart  — 
we  wear  on  each  other  —  we  need  absence,  a 
good  dose  of  it,  too.  We  only  make  each  other 
miserable.  We  — " 

This  was  not  all.  I  cannot  write  the  rest. 
Some  of  his  words  will  sound  in  my  ears  till  my 
funeral  bell. 

"Very  well,  Dana,"  I  said.  "Do  as  you 
please." 

"  I  do  not  leave  you,  you  understand ! "  he 
cried  hotly.  "  You  are  welcome  to  come  with 
me.  Or  I  will  send  for  you  by  the  next  steamer, 
after  I  have  found  some  sort  of  a  place  for  you 
—  if  you  prefer.  You  are  at  perfect  liberty  — 
to  come,  if  you  choose." 

"  And  Marion  "?  " 

His  eye  wavered. 

"  And  Father  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  marry  your  father.     You  are  my 


184     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

wife.  You  can  accompany  me,  if  you  wish,  of 
course." 

"  I  shall  sail,"  he  added,  "  the  seventh  of 
October." 

He  was  as  white,  by  then,  as  the  wedding- 
dress  of  Banny  Doodle,  whom  Marion  had 
dragged  contemptuously  by  one  leg,  and  flung 
head  downward  in  her  father's  arms.  I  stood 
staring  at  those  two  spots  of  whiteness  —  the 
doll's  dress  and  the  man's  face.  Everything  else 
in  the  room  had  turned  black.  I  could  not 
even  see  my  child.  But  I  heard  her  rippling : 

"  Pity  Popper ! " 

I  think  she  asked  him  to  kiss  her.  And  I 
think  he  did. 


October  the  twenty-first. 

THE  great  crises  of  life  are  not,  I  think, 
necessarily  those  which  are  in  themselves 
the  hardest  to  bear,  but  those  for  which  we  are 
least  prepared.  My  present  fate  has  the  distinc- 
tion of  possessing  both  these  features.  Like 
many  forms  of  distinction,  it  is  more  uncom- 
fortable than  enviable. 

I  suppose  one  ought  to  be  glad  if  one  is  capa- 
ble of  the  sardonic.  Perhaps  it  is  a  healthy 
sign.  Probably  that  class  of  people  who  pass 
their  lives  in  a  chronic  fear  of  being  or  of  being 
thought  "  morbid "  would  call  it  so.  On  the 

D 

contrary,  I  doubt  if  it  is  a  sign  of  anything  but 
the  mere  struggle  for  human  existence.  I  am 
the  mother  of  a  child,  and  I  must  live.  Since  I 
must  live,  I  cannot  suffer  beyond  a  certain  point. 
I  dimly  perceive  that  if  I  could  rise  to  the  level 
of  something  quite  alien  to  my  nature,  I  might 
thrust  off  by  sheer  mechanics  a  measure  of  what  I 
endure.  I  wonder  if  this  expulsive  power  is  scorn"? 

185 


i86     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

There  should  be  schools  of  the  prophets  for  a 
betrothed  girl  or  a  bride.  She  should  be  taught 
to  pray :  "  I  find  myself  deficient  in  the  first  trait 
of  character  necessary  to  womanhood.  Lord, 
give  me  scorn." 

I  meant  to  record  to-day — again  to  what  end 
who  knows? — something  of  what  has  happened. 
But  I  find  I  cannot  sit  up  long  enough.  The 
pen  shakes  in  my  hand  like  a  halyard  in  a  storm. 

October  the  twenty-seventh. 

I  HAVE  written  many  letters  to  him,  but  have 
not  sent  one  yet ;  I  can't  do  it.  If  I  am  wrong, 
I  shall  be  sorry  and  repent;  so  far,  I  do  not  find 
it  possible. 

He  sailed  on  the  seventh  of  the  month,  as  he 
said  he  should.  For  a  long  time  Dana  has  done 
everything  that,  and  precisely  as,  he  purposed.  I 
cannot  remember  when  he  has  yielded  to  an  ex- 
pressed wish  of  mine  because  I  expressed  it. 
Perhaps  I  should  have  given  this  more  weight, 
as  a  sign  of  deviation  in  his  feeling  toward  me ; 
but  in  fact  I  have  regarded  it  as  a  form  of  ner- 
vousness. Yet  I  cannot  see  that  he  is  ill,  except 
now  and  then,  as  everybody  is.  Indeed,  much 
of  the  time  he  has  been  in  better  health  than 
usual  —  vigorous,  animated,  often  excitedly  so. 
He  has  had  many  moods  and  phases,  but  in  one 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE      187 

respect  he  has  undergone  none :  his  determina- 
tion to  break  away  from  his  surroundings  has 
been  sustained  till  it  became  inflexible.  A  con- 
sulship is  only  the  mold  into  which  his  will  has 
hardened.  It  happened  to  be  Montevideo.  It 
might  have  been  Venice  or  Constantinople, 
the  Philippines  or  Hawaii.  He  cabled,  as  he 
had  arranged,  and  said  that  he  was  safe  and 
well. 

What  took  place  between  him  and  Father  I 
never  knew,  and  probably  I  never  shall.  The 
inevitable  interview  occurred  the  next  day  after 
he  hurled  the  news  at  me,  for  it  could  not  be 
said  that  he  broke  it.  He  came  from  the  other 
house  with  face  like  clay,  gray  and  stiff,  and 
locked  his  library  door  upon  him.  How  he  re- 
ceived this,  the  first  and  probably  the  worst  of 
many  strokes  which  he  must  meet,  I  am  not  likely 
ever  to  be  told.  Men  wince  under  another  man's 
rebuke,  I  observe,  when  a  woman  may  pour  her 
heart  at  their  feet  to  no  visible  impression.  Father 
is  as  dumb  as  he  in  the  marble  group  of  the 
Laocoon.  He  has  aged  ten  years  since  Dana 
went,  and  weakens  visibly  every  day.  We  have 
scarcely  dared  to  talk  about  it,  either  he  or  I. 
He  sent  for  me  once,  and  I  went  over,  and  knelt 
beside  his  chair,  and  laid  my  head  in  his  lap, 
and  said : 


i88     CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE 

"  Never  mind,  Father !  " 

He  put  his  hands  upon  my  hair,  and  seemed 
to  grope  for  me ;  and  then  he  began  to  sob  — 
my  father !  I  have  never  heard  that  sound  be- 
fore, since  my  mother  died.  I  think  he  said : 
"  Daughter  Marna !  My  poor  daughter ! "  But 
his  words  were  broken.  When  I  had  com- 
forted him  a  little,  and  kissed  his  wet  face,  and 
laid  my  cheek  upon  his  gray  hair,  and  blessed 
him,  and  calmed  him,  he  struggled  to  his  feet, 
and  held  me  at  arm's-length,  and  read  my  face 
with  the  look  which  used  to  be  called  "the 
governor's  eye"  when  he  was  in  his  prime. 

"  You  shall  not  stay  —  on  my  account,"  he 
said  with  the  governor's  voice.  "  You  shall  ac- 
company your  husband.  I  will  not  come  be- 
tween you.  Ellen  can  take  care  of  me;  and  I 
have  been  thinking  perhaps  some  of  the  cousins 
would  consent  to  live  here  and  look  after  me  a 
little.  I  should  not  need  it  very  long.  A  wife's 
place  is  beside  her  husband.  I  will  not  consent 
to  come  between  you  and  yours." 

I  know  that  my  eyes  fell  before  my  father's. 
I  think  I  thrust  out  my  hands  to  ask  him  to 
spare  me.  But  all  I  could  say  was : 

"  Don't,  Father !  don't !  " 

I  tried  to  tell  him  that  it  was  not  he  who 
came  between  me  and  my  husband;  but  I 


"  '  MV   POOR    DAUGHTER  !  '  " 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      189 

think  he  understood  without  the  telling,  for  he 
did  spare  me. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  Montevideo,"  I  said. 
"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  Father.  I  have 
decided.  I  shall  not  accompany  my  husband  — 
not  now." 

Monday  evening. 

LIKE  a  hurricane,  gust  upon  gust  whirling,  the 
days  that  were  left  drove  by.  Dana  became 
suddenly  quiet  and  strange,  almost  gentle.  I 
helped  him  in  all  the  ways  I  could  think  of 
about  his  packing,  and  little  things.  I  sewed  a 
good  deal,  and  mended  all  his  clothes  myself, 
not  letting  Luella  touch  anything.  And  I  asked 
Robert  Hazelton  to  put  up  a  case  of  medicines 
for  him  for  sudden  illness,  and  tucked  it  in  be- 
tween his  golf-suits  and  his  old  blue  velveteen 
coat  —  the  coat  I  used  to  kiss.  Robert  hesitated, 
I  thought,  about  the  medicines.  His  face  was 
set  and  stern.  But  he  gave  them  to  me.  We 
did  not  talk  about  my  husband's  going  to  Uru- 
guay ;  and  I  am  sure  that  he  had  already  heard 
of  it. 

Oh,  I  did  my  best !  It  was  a  miserable  best, 
for  I  do  not  think  I  am  a  brave  woman,  and 
sometimes  I  crumbled  to  ashes.  Then  I  would 
go  away  alone,  for  a  while,  to  regain  myself,  or 
busy  myself  with  some  order  —  anything  that  I 


190     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

could  think  of  that  would  give  Dana  any  ease 
or  comfort.  I  got  everything  that  he  liked  for 
dinner,  all  his  favorite  soups  and  meats,  and  the 
pistachio  cream  and  sponge-cake.  I  find  myself 
wondering  if  he  would  not  have  liked  escalloped 
potatoes  better  than  souffle.  And  I  would  have 
given  five  years  of  my  life  if  the  fire  had  not 
smoked  in  the  dining-room,  and  annoyed  him  so, 
that  last  day  but  one. 

The  last  day — the  last  day !  If  I  write  about 
it,  should  I  stand  a  chance  of  forgetting  it  for, 
let  us  say,  the  span  of  one  omitted  pang  ?  Some- 
times it  works  that  way.  I  slept  a  little  toward 
four  o'clock,  between  then  and  six.  The  banshee 
moaned  so  that  I  had  to  stifle  her  with  a  hand- 
kerchief. Once,  in  the  night,  I  am  sure  his 
door  opened,  and  once  again  I  thought  it  did. 
And  once  I  am  sure  that  I  heard  him  weeping. 

I  did  not  cry  —  not  then.  I  only  lay  staring 
and  still.  That  sea-song  which  he  read  to  me  in 
the  Dowe  Cottage  before  we  were  married  kept 
coming  into  my  head: 

The  stars  swing  like  lamps  in  the  Judgment  Hall 
On  the  eve  of  the  Day  of  the  Last  Awaking. 

I  got  up  at  six,  and  took  care  of  Marion,  and 
put  on  my  old  ruby  gown.  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  not  to  go  to  the  train  with  him,  and  I  was 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      191 

glad  I  had,  for  when  he  saw  me,  the  first  thing 
he  said  was,  "  So  you  are  not  going  to  see  me 
off^  "  with  unmistakable  relief.  I  think  he  was 
afraid  there  would  be  a  scene  in  the  station,  or 
perhaps  he  really  felt  as  if  he  could  not  bear  it, 
himself.  It  would  be  something  if  I  could  be- 
lieve that. 

There  was,  in  fact,  nothing  left  to  say  or  do, 
by  that  time.  He  had  arranged  with  Father 
about  all  sorts  of  business  concerns,  and  taught 
me  how  to  use  my  check-book  (I  never  had  one 
before),  and  he  had  done  all  the  proper  things. 
You  might  have  thought  he  was  only  running 
over  to  London  and  back  for  three  or  four 
weeks. 

"  I  will  find  some  kind  of  home  for  you  when 
I  can  look  about,"  he  said  several  times.  To 
this  I  made  no  reply. 

"  I  will  let  you  know  at  once,  as  soon  as  I 
come  across  anything,"  he  repeated.  But  I  felt 
that  there  was  nothing  to  be  said. 

"  You  don't  seem  particularly  anxious  to  join 
me,"  he  complained.  "  Of  course  I  don't  wish 
to  make  myself  disagreeable  about  it.  I  will 
write  often,"  he  added,  "and  shall  cable  as  soon 
as  I  arrive." 

When  I  asked  (still  not  replying),  "Have 
you  packed  your  thick  silk  flannels'?"  he  flushed. 


192     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"Other  husbands  do  such  things,"  he  urged. 
"Other  wives  accept  and  accommodate  them- 
selves; they  do  not  claim  a  martyr's  crown  for 
the  ordinary  episodes  of  political  life.  You  will 
get  along,  I  am  sure.  You  are  very  clever;  I 
never  knew  you  fail  to  do  anything  that  you 
tried  to  do;  and  your  father  will  relieve  you  of 
all  business  cares.  You  will  do  nicely  until  we 
can  be  together  again  — " 

"  Do  you  want  a  photograph  of  the  baby  to 
take  with  you '?  "  I  interrupted.  I  folded  one  in 
an  envelope,  and  handed  it  to  him,  writing  on  it 
her  name  and  age.  Nothing  was  said  about  a 
picture  of  myself;  nor  did  I  speak  of  our  being 
together  again;  I  could  as  well  have  said  it  in 
the  throat  of  the  grave.  I  watched  him  strapping 
his  trunks  as  if  I  were  watching  the  earth  being 
shoveled  between  us. 

Marion  ran  up  and  sat  on  the  steamer-trunk, 
and  commanded  him,  stamping  her  little  foot: 
"Pity  Popper  take  Baby  widing!  Take  Dombey ! 
Take  Baby!  " 

While  we  were  packing  his  valise,  a  hand- 
organ  came  up  Father's  avenue,  and  began  to 
play  negro  melodies.  There  was  a  woman  with 
the  man,  and  she  sang  shrilly,  to  a  tambourine  : 

Keep  me  from  sinking  down! 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      193 

It  was  a  bright  day,  and  the  maples  on  the 
avenues  were  of  the  topaz  color,  and  had  the 
topaz  fire ;  they  met  against  the  sky  like  the 
arch  of  joy  in  some  strange  world  where  people 
were  happy.  But  the  woodbine  on  the  tree- 
house,  the  one  we  planted  the  fall  we  were 
married,  was  ruby-red. 

At  the  last,  some  power  not  myself  compelled 
me,  and  I  ran  out  and  picked  a  leaf  of  the  red 
woodbine  from  the  tree-house,  and  looked  for  a 
photograph  to  pin  it  on,  but  could  not  find  any. 
It  seems  he  had  taken  one,  after  all.  And  so  I 
put  the  leaf  into  his  dressing-case;  but  first  I 
kissed  it.  He  did  not  know. 

When  he  had  said  good-by  to  Father  and  to 
the  servants,  he  kissed  the  baby,  and  put  her 
down,  and  looked  about  for  me.  I  was  up-stairs, 
for  all  I  could  think  was  to  get  away,  not  to  be 
seen  by  anybody;  and  he  followed  me.  I  thought 
he  would.  He  came  into  our  own  rooms,  and 
shut  the  door.  I  think  he  held  out  his  arms,  I 
think  he  spoke  my  name  several  times,  but  in 
very  truth  I  do  not  know.  I  only  know  that 
the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  stirred  and  rose 
upon  me.  A  woman's  poise,  self-control,  self- 
respect,  purpose,  pride,  resolve — these  are  grand 
sounds,  great  words :  a  woman's  breaking  heart 
defies  them  all. 


194     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

I  think  when  he  tried  to  kiss  me  that  I  hid 
my  face,  and  slid  from  his  lips  to  his  breast,  and 
down,  with  my  arms  around  him,  till  I  clasped 
his  knees,  and  so  sinking,  I  fell  and  reached  his 
feet.  And  then  I  called  upon  him,  and  cried  out 
to  him — God  knows  what — such  cries  as  heart- 
break utters  and  the  whole-hearted  cannot  under- 
stand. I  suppose  I  begged  him  not  to  go.  I 
suppose  I  prayed  him  for  love's  sake,  for  mine, 
for  the  child's,  and,  above  all  and  everything,  for 
his  own.  I  suppose  I  spent  myself  in  a  passion 
of  entreaty  which  I  cannot  remember,  and  he  will 
not  forget, —  I,  Marna,  his  wife, —  wetting  his 
feet  with  my  tears.  I  have  moments  of  wonder- 
ing why  I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  I  think  of  it 
stupidly,  without  emotion,  as  something  which 
had  to  be — the  inevitable,  the  revenge  of  nature 
upon  herself.  It  was  as  if  I  watched  the  scene 
upon  some  strange  stage,  and  criticized  some 
woman,  not  myself,  for  an  excessive  part  she 
played. 

Last  night  I  dreamed  it  all  over,  as  if  it  were 
a  play,  and  I  sat  in  the  audience,  and  Dana  and 
I  were  on  the  stage.  But  when  I  looked  about 
me,  I  found  that  the  audience  was  serried  with 
women,  thousands  upon  thousands  —  that  all 
Womanhood  had  thronged  to  the  drama,  and  sat 
weeping;  and  suddenly  I  saw  that  the  house  rose 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     195 

upon  me,  because  I  alone  did  not  weep,  but 
criticized  the  woman  on  the  stage. 

"She  is  nature!"  they  cried.  "She  is  ours, 
and  of  us,  forever." 

But  I  looked  into  my  husband's  face,  and  I 
saw  him  debonair  and  smiling,  and  I  cried  out 
upon  the  women : 

"  Then  is  nature  set  against  nature,  and  woman- 
hood and  manhood  are  at  civil  war." 

So  I  woke,  and  the  door  into  Dana's  room 
was  open,  and  I  remembered  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

A  SHORT  letter  has  come  from  him ;  it  said  that 
he  was  comfortable,  and  would  give  details  by 
the  next  mail,  and  sent  his  love  to  Marion. 

November  the  eighth. 

I  WILL  not  be  ill,  and  I  cannot  be  well,  and 
therefore  am  I  racked.  Dr.  Hazelton  wishes  me 
to  suffer  him  to  offer  some  professional  service; 
I  think  he  said  there  might  be  consequences 
which  I  did  not  foresee  if  I  received  no  care.  I 
shook  my  head,  and  he  turned  away;  and  then  I 
called  him  back  and  thanked  him,  and  shook  my 
head  again. 

What  could  he  do"?  I  am  broken  on  this 
wheel. 


196     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

SENT 

"November  the  tenth. 

"  MY  DEAR  HUSBAND  :  I  have  your  letters  and 
your  cable,  and  thank  you  for  them.  I  have  not 
written,  partly  because  I  have  not  been  very 
well ;  but  I  am  not  at  all  ill.  When  you  write 
more  particularly,  I  shall  know  better  what  to 
say.  So  far,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  writing  into  the 
air.  I  shall  become  accustomed,  no  doubt,  to 
the  new  conditions,  and  adjust  myself  to  them. 
Marion  is  well,  except  for  one  of  her  throats. 
She  talks  a  good  deal  about  Pity  Popper.  Father 
remains  about  the  same,  and  there  is  no  news 
except  domestic  items,  which  would  not  interest, 
and  might  annoy,  you. 

"I  am,  faithfully, 

'  "  MARNA,  your  Wife." 

UNSENT 

Undated. 

"  DEAR  DARLING  :  I  write  you  a  thousand  let- 
ters in  my  heart,  and  I  fold  them  there,  and  seal 
them  with  my  kisses,  and  blur  them  with  my 
tears,  till  the  words  lean  one  upon  another,  and 
cling  to  each  other  so  that  they  are  illegible  for 
very  clinging,  as  lovers  are  lost  in  oneness  for 
very  loving. 

"  I  am  trying  to  bear  it,  since  you  have  willed 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      197 

it  —  oh,  believe  I  try !  I  keep  hard  at  work,  and 
am  busy  with  Marion,  and  I  am  a  good  deal 
with  Father,  for  I  will  not  wade  into  my  misery. 
If  I  do,  I  shall  be  swept  away.  There  is  terrible 
undertow  in  a  woman's  nature  —  it  would  hurl 
me  into  an  abyss.  I  wish  I  had  been  a  different 
woman  for  your  sake,  Dana — not  to  mind  things 
so,  and  not  to  grieve.  I  think  if  I  had  been  of 
another  fiber,  coarser-grained,  if  I  had  not  cared 
when  you  were  not  tender,  or  when  I  was  alone 
so  much,  if  I  had  been  ruder  of  nerve  or  tissue  — 
do  you  suppose  you  would  have  liked  me  better  *? 
I  spend  my  nights  thinking  how  I  could  have 
been  a  better  wife  to  you.  I  can  see  so  many 
mistakes  I  have  made,  so  many  ways  in  which  I 
could  have  done  differently  and  pleased  you 
better.  I  dream  a  good  deal  about  it,  and  always 
that  you  have  come  back,  and  that  we  are  happy 
again,  and  that  you  love  me,  and  are  glad  to  be 
near  me,  as  you  used  to  be.  But  I  do  not  ask 
you  to  come  back.  Act  your  own  nature.  Have 
your  will.  If  it  kills  me,  remember  that  I  tried 
to  bear  it.  Though  it  slay  me,  I  will  not  pursue 
you  with  my  love  —  my  bruised  and  broken  love. 
"  Did  you  know  you  left  your  blue  velveteen 
coat,  after  all  *?  I  found  it  on  the  floor,  and  hung 
it  up  in  your  closet.  I  was  rather  glad  you  did 
leave  it,  for  it  comforts  me  a  little.  I  kiss  it 


198     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

every  morning  and  every  night  —  a  good  many 
times  at  night.  It  is  fortunate  that  it  is  an  old 
coat,  for  the  shoulders  and  sleeves  get  pretty  wet. 

"  Your  desolate 

"  MARNA." 

December  the  tenth. 

DR.  ROBERT  allows  me  to  go  down  to  dinner  to- 
day, the  first  time  for  some  weeks.  I  think  I 
must  have  been  pretty  sick,  yet  I  cannot  see  that 
anything  in  particular  has  been  the  matter ;  every- 
thing is  in  good  condition,  unless  there  has  been 
a  little  feebleness  of  the  heart's  action ;  but  there 
is  no  real  disorder,  Dr.  Curtis  says.  He  has  been 
in  a  few  times  to  see  me,  but  left  the  case,  as  he 
leaves  most  of  his  cases  now,  to  Dr.  Hazelton. 
Possibly  there  has  been  some  congestion  in  the 
brain,  hardly  enough  to  call  a  fever —  and,  really, 
I  don't  care  enough  what  ails  me  to  insist  on 
knowing,  unless  I  am  told.  Neither  of  them  has 
shown  any  uncontrollable  desire  to  tell  me  what 
has  been  the  matter. 

One  night  when  I  was  lying  in  a  sort  of  stupor, 
seeing  strange  things  and  thinking  stranger,  and 
not  supposed,  I  am  sure,  to  be  capable  of  hear- 
ing any,  I  must  have  absorbed  fragments  of  con- 
versation between  the  old  doctor  and  the  young. 

"Have  you  thought  of  trephining?"  asked 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE      199 

Dr.  Curtis,  with  a  doubt  and  a  dogma  warring  in 
his  voice.  "  If  there  should  be  anything  in  the 
nature  of  a  concealed  inflammation — " 

"  Would  you  operate  for  heartbreak  *? "  de- 
manded Robert,  fiercely.  "  There  is  absolutely 
nothing  else." 

"  Damn  him  !  "  cried  our  old  doctor. 

Dr.  Robert  did  not  answer.  He  got  up  and 
went  to  the  window,  and  stood  with  his  back  to 
Dr.  Curtis; — a  short,  strong  figure,  as  stern  as 
granite,  he  trembled  like  the  river  of  light  which 
broke  through  the  closed  blinds  against  which  he 
stood.  I  saw  the  sun-motes  whirling  about  his 
head  and  shoulders  at  the  moment  when  I 
recognized  him  in  that  flaming  stream. 

Now  that  I  am  better,  and  look  back  upon  it 
all,  I  can  see  that  it  must  have  been  Dr.  Robert's 
face  which  I  saw  so  often  when  I  was  the  sick- 
est—  a  calm,  protecting  presence,  tireless  and 
strong.  I  scarcely  remember  seeing  Fanny  at 
all.  I  could  have  blessed  Robert,  but  I  do  not 
think  I  did.  I  dreamed  so  much  of  Dana,  and 
had  such  visions,  all  the  while.  I  thought  I 
should  die,  and  Dana  so  many  thousand  miles 
away.  Nothing  was  of  any  consequence  but 
Dana. 

I  wonder  if  I  talked  about  my  husband? 
Much*?  I  dare  not  ask;  and  Robert  would 


200     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

cheerfully  be  put  to  the  second  question,  but  he 
would  not  tell.  I  am  glad  that  the  doctor  is  not 
a  stranger,  if  there  must  be  a  doctor  at  all.  I 
suppose,  really,  he  has  been  very  kind  to  me.  I 
must  remember  to  thank  him. 

To-day  I  found  some  of  my  letters  to  Dana 
put  away  carefully  in  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  but 
not  locked.  I  have  taken  out  a  few,  and  put 
them  into  the  Accepted  Manuscript:  they  will 
be  safer  there. 

December  the  eleventh. 

IT  occurred  to  me  to  ask  the  doctor  if  anybody 
had  told  Dana  that  I  had  been  ill. 

"  Your  father,"  he  said,  "  and  I." 

"  You  did  not  cable  for  him  ?  "  I  fired.  I  felt 
the  color  slap  my  cheeks.  Dr.  Robert  made  no 
reply.  "  I  will  never  forgive  you,"  I  cried,  "  if 
you  asked  him  to  come  home  —  for  this!" 

"  The  danger  was  not  so  imminent  as  to 
make  it  really  necessary,"  he  answered  quickly. 
Afterward  this  reply  struck  me  as  less  candid 
than  it  might  have  been ;  but  I  did  not  pursue 
the  subject,  for  I  saw  that  I  had  pained  the 
doctor. 

To-day  my  husband's  letters  came  —  two  or 
three  of  them,  blockaded  in  the  mails.  They 
express  the  proper  amount  of  concern  for  my 
"indisposition,"  —  that  was  the  word, —  and  re- 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     201 

quest  to  be  promptly  informed  of  any  change 
for  better  or  for  worse. 

What  is  it  about  that  phrase  ?  Oh,  I  remem- 
ber. It  was  for  better  and  for  worse  that  we 
gave  ourselves  to  each  other. 

Wonderful,  those  ancient  oaths,  sanctified  by 
centuries  of  bridals !  One  must  reverence  lan- 
guage drawn  out  of  the  live,  beating  human 
heart  —  an  artery  of  love  through  which  a  mighty 
experience  has  poured. 

"In  sickness  and  in  health"?  "Till  death 
us  do  part'"?  Who  knows  but  the  time  will 
come  when  the  marriage  service  shall  be  thus 
amended  ?  — 

"  Till  sickness  us  do  disenchant."  "  Till  dis- 
tance us  do  part." 

Fanny  Freer  took  her  heart  in  her  mouth  to- 
day, and  warned  me  in  so  many  words  that  I 
was  becoming  vitriolic. 

"  It  is  quite  unnecessary,"  she  said.  Fanny  has 
taken  care  of  me  since  I  have  been  ill ;  I  have 
named  her  Mercibel  —  Angel  of  Sickness,  Beau- 
tiful Mercy.  When  her  dimple  dips  into  her 
bow-and-arrow  mouth  she  is  irresistible.  How 
divine  is  the  tenderness  of  a  woman !  It  has 
ineffable  delicacy,  the  refinement  of  a  self-abne- 
gating nature,  a  something  passing  the  affection 
of  man.  A  woman  hungers  and  thirsts  for  the 


202     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

compassion  of  her  own  kind.     I  lean  to  Merci- 
bel ;  "  for  my  race  is  of  the  Asra." 
Men  have  little  tenderness,  I  think. 

I  HAD  written  so  far  when  the  doctor  called.  I 
must  say  Robert  is  very  kind  to  me.  There  is  a 
certain  quality  in  his  manner  which  I  do  not 
know  how  to  define ;  an  instinctive  or  an  ac- 
quired forgetfulness  of  himself,  a  way  of  think- 
ing no  suffering  too  small  if  he  can  relieve  it,  no 
relief  too  insignificant  if  he  can  offer  it.  I  am 
told  that  his  patients  love  him  devotedly,  and 
that  he  sacrifices  himself  for  poor  and  obscure 
persons  to  an  unfashionable  extent,  so  that  Dr. 
Curtis  and  the  older  men  feel  quite  concerned 
about  him. 

"  Are  there  not  hospitals  and  dispensaries  *?  " 
they  say.  I  believe  they  are  plotting  to  tie  him 
to  a  hospital  of  his  own.  Many  people  lean  on 
him;  they  "clamor"  for  him,  Mercibel  says, 
and  she  has  worked  for  him  a  good  deal ;  I  sup- 
pose she  knows.  One  need  not  clamor,  and 
one  may  not  lean,  but  I  do  feel  grateful  to  Rob- 
ert. Now  that  I  am  getting  better,  Marion  is 
ailing;  the  doctor  thinks  this  delicacy  of  her 
throat  needs  careful  attention,  and  I  am  sure 
he  gives  it.  Dr.  Curtis  tells  me  to  trust  her 
entirely  to  Dr.  Hazelton,  and  that  he  has  not 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     203 

his  superior  among  the  young  physicians  of  the 
State. 

It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  Robert  was  ever  a 
lover  and  suitor  of  mine.  I  have  quite  forgotten 
it,  and  I  am  sure  he  has.  I  wish  he  would  marry 
Minnie  Curtis. 

I  wonder  if  Dana  has  written  to  Minnie1? 
She  does  not  mention  it.  I  think  she  would  if  he 
had.  I  have  written  to  Dana  to-day.  The  doc- 
tor offered  to  mail  it  for  me  direct  from  the  post- 
office  on  his  way  down-town,  that  it  might  catch 
the  outgoing  steamer.  I  wish  I  did  not  find  it 
so  hard  to  write  naturally  to  my  husband ;  but  I 
think  that  my  embarrassment  grows  worse  and 
worse.  I  feel  so  bruised  all  the  time ;  it  is  as  if 
he  had  beaten  me  —  my  soul  is  black.  And  he 
never  raised  his  hand  against  me  in  my  life. 
Mercibel  tells  me  that  husbands  sometimes  do 
such  things.  And  he  was  often  very  angry  with 
me  —  God  knows  why. 

I  am  glad  he  never  did  that.  I  should  have 
taken  the  baby  and  gone  out  of  the  house  for- 
ever. I  can't  say  that  I  should  not  have  wished 
I  had  n't,  but  I  should  have  gone ;  I  am  quite 
sure  of  that,  for  I  am  so  constituted.  I  am 
called  a  tender  woman ;  but  there  is  a  shield  of 
implacability  in  me,  steel,  deep  down  beneath  my 
satin.  If  there  were  not,  I  think  I  should  be  dead. 


204     CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE 

One  day  the  doctor  said  to  me  in  quite  a 
casual  way : 

"  Did  you  have  occasion  to  notice  any  marked 
nervous  irritability  in  Mr.  Herwin  before  he 
went  to  Uruguay  —  say  the  last  six  months  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  I  suggested. 

"  I  am  answered,"  said  Robert.  He  bent  over 
the  powders  which  he  was  folding  collectedly; 
his  profile  was  as  impersonal  as  a  symbolic 
medallion. 

"  You  will  take  these,"  he  said,  "  one  dry  on 
the  tongue  every  night.  You  will  give  Marion 
the  others,  in  six  tablespoonfuls  of  water,  one 
teaspoonful  every  two  hours." 

He  rose,  snapping  the  elastic  on  his  medicine- 
case,  and  his  lips  parted.  I  saw  that  he  would 
have  spoken.  In  fact,  he  left  without  another 
word. 

December  the  twentieth. 
TO-DAY  the  doctor  said  abruptly : 

"  Write  to  your  husband  often ;  and  —  par- 
don me  —  write  as  kindly  as  you  can." 

I  sat  staring.  Robert  has  never  spoken  so  to 
me  before.  I  was  inclined  to  resent  his  words ; 
but  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  resent 
his  manner.  This  is  something  so  fine  and  com- 
passionate that  I  do  not  know  how  to  qualify  it. 
Mercibel  calls  it  his  oxygen.  "  That  is  what 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     205 

they  clamor  for,"  she  says,  "  an  invigoration  that 
can  be  breathed.  Every  patient  feels  the  same 
about  him." 

I  wonder  if  Fanny  wanted  me  to  understand 
that  the  doctor  had  no  particular  manner  reserved 
for  myself?  She  need  not  have  undergone  any 
anxieties.  She  does  not  know  that  Robert  and  I 
meet  like  two  spirits,  having  left  all  personal  re- 
lations far  behind  us  in  an  old,  forgotten  world. 

SENT 

"  January  the  third. 

"  MY  DEAR  HUSBAND  :  I  have  not  been  quite 
strong  enough  to  write  you  any  details  before 
now,  and  I  knew  that  Dr.  Hazelton  had  cabled 
you,  though  I  did  not  know  it  until  several  days 
afterward.  I  shall  hear  from  you  soon,  no 
doubt. 

"  I  had  been  over  to  see  Father  rather  late  that 
evening,  and  had  carried  him  our  little  presents, 
Marion's  and  mine,  and  he  kissed  me  good  night 
three  times,  and  blessed  me,  and  said : 

" '  Daughter,  you  have  never  given  me  one 
hour's  anxiety;  you  have  been  nothing  but  a 
comfort  to  me  from  the  first  moment  that  they 
laid  you  in  my  arms.' 

"  In  the  morning,  in  the  Christmas  morning, 
while  it  was  quite  gray  and  early,  Luella  waked 


206     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

me,  and  said  that  the  doctor  was  down-stairs  and 
wished  to  see  me  for  a  moment  Even  then  I 
did  not  understand ;  I  thought  perhaps  he  was 
called  away  on  some  long  case,  or  out-of-town 
consultation,  and  had  come  to  leave  directions 
about  Marion, —  for  he  takes  such  care  of  Marion 
as  I  am  sure  you  will  be  grateful  to  him  for, — 
and  I  dressed  and  hurried  down,  stupidly. 

"  Robert  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
library,  and  when  I  saw  his  face  I  said  : 

"  '  Something  has  happened  to  Father !  I 
will  go  right  over.' 

"  I  started,  and  pushed  open  the  front  door, 
and  out  into  the  snow,  for  it  had  stormed  (and 
the  banshee  had  cried  as  she  does  in  storms)  all 
night.  James  had  not  begun  to  shovel  the  paths, 
and  it  was  pretty  deep.  But  before  I  had  waded 
in  I  felt  myself  held  strongly  back  by  the  shoul- 
ders, and  the  doctor  said : 

"  '  Do  not  go,  Marna.  There  is  nothing  you 
can  do  —  nor  I.' 

"  Ellen  had  found  him  at  six  o'clock, '  looking 
that  happy,'  she  says.  And  the  doctor  got  there 
in  a  few  minutes,  but  he  is  sure  that  nobody 
could  have  saved  Father.  It  was  an  embolism 
in  brain  or  heart,  they  think. 

"  We  buried  him  beside  Mother,  on  the  third 
day  of  Christmas  week.  Of  course  I  knew  you 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     207 

could  not  get  here,  and  I  tried  not  to  think  of  it. 
He  left  a  sealed  letter  for  you.  Shall  I  send  it 
on  *?  Or  would  you  rather  wait  ? 

"  You  will  forgive  a  short  note,  for  I  have  not 
been  quite  well,  and  there  are  many  cares  and 
perplexities  to  be  met. 

"  Your  affectionate  wife, 

"  MARNA." 

UNSENT 

Undated. 

"  MY  DARLING  :  I  know  you  do  not  realize 
what  I  am  undergoing,  and  I  tell  myself  so  every 
moment,  lest  I  should  lose  myself  and  think 
hardly  of  you.  I  say :  '  It  was  so  sudden  that 
he  could  not  come,  and  now  that  it  is  over,  why 
should  he  come  ? '  It  is  true  I  long  for  you  so 
that  it  seems  as  if  I  could  not  live.  But  I  do 
not  like  to  tell  you  so.  I  am  not  used  to  bearing 
so  much  quite  alone.  I  never  had  a  real  be- 
reavement before  —  I  see  now  that  I  never  did. 
I  think  if  I  could  creep  into  your  arms,  and  hear 
you  say,  '  Poor  little  wife ! '  that  I  could  cry.  I 
find  it  impossible  to  cry. 

"  I  begin  to  understand  for  the  first  time  some- 
thing of  what  people  mean  when  they  say :  '  It 
was  easiest  for  him,  but  hardest  for  us.'  All  those 
truisms  of  grief  and  consolation  have  never  had 
meaning  for  me ;  in  truth,  I  don't  think  I  have 


208     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

respected  them  —  the  uncandid  prattle  about 
resignation,  the  religious  phraseology  made  to 
do  duty  for  honest  anguish.  But  now  I  think 
of  all  the  old  human  expedients  enviously.  Per- 
haps if  I  had  been  a  devout  woman  I  might 
know  how  to  bear  this  better.  Do  you  think  I 
should?  Dana,  it  sometimes  comes  to  me,  on 
long  nights  when  I  cannot  sleep,  to  ask  myself, 
with  the  terrible  frankness  of  vigil,  whether,  if 
you  and  I  had  been  what  are  called  religious 
people,  we  should  have  found  marriage  any  less 
a  mystery  —  for  us,  I  mean ;  any  easier  to  adapt 
ourselves  to.  There  may  be  something  in  the 
trained  sense  of  duty,  something  —  who  knows? 
—  in  that  old  idea  of  sacrifice,  in  the  putting 
aside  of  one's  own  exacting  personality,  in  the 
yielding  of  lower  to  higher  laws.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  the  Christian  idea  can  come  to  the  rescue 
of  the  love  idea  ?  I  do  not  know.  I  am  teach- 
ing Marion  to  say  her  prayers.  I  hope  you  will 
not  mind? 

"  Dana,  Dana,  I  love  you  !  Sometimes  I  wish 
I  did  not;  but  I  do.  I  cannot  help  it.  I  must 
be  honest  and  tell  you ;  sometimes  I  try  to  help 
it.  I  think  that  I  must  stop  loving  you  or  die ; 
and  I  grope  about  for  something  to  take  the 
place  of  loving  you,  some  interest  that  I  could 
tolerate,  any  diversion  or  occupation,  some  little 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     209 

passing  comfort,  the  kindness  of  other  people  to 

me,  something  to  '  keep  me  from  sinking  down.' 

"Your  lonely  and  your  loving 

"  MARNA." 

SENT 

"  January  the  fifteenth. 

"Mv  DEAR  HUSBAND:  You  will  be  notified, 
of  course,  in  the  proper  way  by  Father's  lawyers, 
but  I  am  sure  you  should  hear  it  first  from  me. 
The  property  is  found  to  be  in  a  strange  condi- 
tion —  depleted,  Dr.  Hazelton  calls  it.  There 
are  some  shrunken  investments,  and  there  has 
been  some  mismanagement  at  the  factories  since 
he  has  been  obliged  to  delegate  everything  so  to 
other  men,  who  have  not  proved  conscientious. 
Then  there  are  those  lawsuits  about  his  patent 
on  the  linen  thread  —  you  know  you  used  to 
take  a  good  deal  of  that  off  his  hands ;  but  lately 
I  think  he  has  been  wronged  somehow,  and  was 
too  feeble  to  right  himself.  At  all  events,  some- 
thing like  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand  is  swept 
away.  And,  in  fact,  my  inheritance  will  prove 
so  small  that  I  am  thinking  seriously  of  renting 
the  old  place.  Do  you  object?  I  have  only 
Father's  friends  to  take  counsel  of,  and  Mr.  Gray 
advises  me  to  do  this,  decidedly. 

"  Please  reply  by  next  steamer. 

"  Your  affectionate  WIFE." 


210     CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE 

CABLE    MESSAGE 

"  January  20. 

"  Herwin,   United  States  Consulate, 
"  Montevideo,   Uruguay. 

"  Drs.  Curtis  and  Hazelton  wish  Father's 
house  sanatorium.  Twenty  years'  lease.  Cable 
reply. 

"  MARNA." 
SENT 

"  January  the  twenty-fifth. 

"  MY  DEAR  DANA  :  Your  cable  came  after  a 
little  delay.  I  suppose  you  may  have  been  out 
of  town1?  We  do  not  altogether  understand  it, 
but  I  fancy  that  happens  with  the  cable.  It 
seems  clear,  however,  that  you  interpose  no  ob- 
jections, and,  not  knowing  anything  better  to 
do,  I  have  closed  with  the  sanatorium  offer  for 
the  old  place.  I  think  I  would  gladly  be  in  Uru- 
guay if  I  need  not  see  my  decision  carried  into 
effect.  I  have  put  the  whole  affair  into  Mr.  Mel- 
lenway's  hands,  so  that  there  shall  be  no  blunder. 

"  It  seems  this  sanatorium  idea  has  long  been 
a  fad  of  Dr.  Curtis's  and  a  dream  of  Robert's ; 
and  the  other  day  that  rich  old  man  Pendleton, 
whom  Robert  has  kept  alive  for  years,  surren- 
dered his  ghost  and  his  will.  Everything  goes 
absolutely  to  Robert  to  support  a  private  hos- 
pital after  his  own  unrestricted  pleasure.  Robert 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     211 

says  it  is  such  an  opportunity  as  some  men  in 
his  profession  would  give  their  lives  for.  Dr. 
Curtis  is  to  be  the  figurehead,  but  Dr.  Hazel- 
ton  will  be  in  virtual  control,  being  resident 
superintendent,  but  with  a  staff  of  subordinates 
which  will  permit  him  to  retain  portions  of  his 
private  practice.  Otherwise,  Fanny  says,  his 
clientele  would  rise  and  mob  him.  If  I  must  see 
anybody  in  the  old  house,  I  would  rather  it  were 
friends  than  strangers.  I  am  trying  to  mold  my 
mind  to  it  without  grumbling.  I  think  there  is 
this  about  the  great  troubles  —  they  teach  us  the 
art  of  cheerfulness;  whereas  the  small  ones  culti- 
vate the  industry  of  discontent.  I  hope  you  will 
be  pleased  with  what  I  have  done.  You  see, 
Dana,  that  what  I  have  of  Mother's  has  dwindled 
with  the  rest,  and,  I  suppose,  for  the  same  reason. 
I  hated  to  have  to  tell  you,  but  really,  Dear,  I 
don't  see  just  how  we  could  get  along  if  I  did 
not  rent  the  place. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  last  letter.  If  they  were  a 
little  longer  sometimes,  I  could  feel  that  I  could 
form  a  better  idea  of  your  life.  You  seem  as 
far  from  'me  as  if  you  swung  in  a  purple  star 
upon  a  frosty  night  —  at  the  end  of  dark  miles 
measured  by  billions  in  mid-space.  But  I  am 
"  Loyally  your  wife, 

"  MARNA. 


212      CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

"  P.S.  Marion  is  becoming  dangerously  pretty, 
and  your  eyes  grow  older  in  her  every  day.  She 
sends  her  love  to  Pity  Popper,  and  commands 
that  you  kiss  Dombey,  distinctly  omitting  Banny 
Doodle,  who  is,  at  this  writing,  head  down  in 
the  umbrella-rack,  by  way  of  punishment  for 
invisible  offenses.  Last  Monday  Banny  Doodle 
was  saved  by  old  Ellen,  at  the  brink  of  fate,  from 
being  scornfully  run  through  the  clothes-wringer. 

"  Ellen  has  asked  my  permission  to  spend  the 
winter  with  me,  refusing  any  wages.  Thank 
you  for  the  last  draft.  I  shall  use  it  as  wisely  as 
I  can,  and  I  am  learning  to  live  economically, 
because  I  must.  We  have  given  up  the  tele- 
phone." 

May  the  twenty-fifth. 

IT  is  one  of  the  days  that  make  one  believe  that 
everything  is  coming  out  right  in  some  world, 
and  might  do  so  in  this  one  if  the  weather  would 
last.  Showers  of  sunshine  drench  the  brightest 
grass,  the  mistiest  leaf,  I  think  I  ever  saw.  The 
apple-tree  is  snowing  pearl  and  coral  upon  the 
tree-house.  (If  Dana  could  see  it,  I  should  be 
quite  happy.)  The  world  is  one  bud,  blossom- 
ing to  a  faithful  sky. 

Marion  is  out  six  hours  of  every  blue-and-gold 
day  with  Job  and  Ellen,  who,  between  them, 
spoil  the  child  artistically.  After  her  hard  win- 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     213 

ter,  the  baby  herself  seems  but  a  May-flower,  a 
pink,  sweet  May-flower,  opening  in  a  shady 
place.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  doctor  —  well, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  doctor,  I  cannot  think 
what  would  have  happened,  or  what  would  yet 
happen.  I  cannot,  now,  imagine  myself  without 
him.  He  who  saves  her  child's  life  recreates  a 
mother. 

The  old  home  and  the  new  sanatorium  are 
wedded  more  comfortably  than  I  should  have 
thought  possible ;  and  I  have  outgrown  the  first 
pangs  of  jealousy.  They  call  it  the  Pendleton, 
as  if  it  were  an  apartment-house.  The  patients 
are  not  so  many  yet,  of  course,  as  to  be  disturb- 
ing, and  the  whole  thing  moves  on  rubber-tired 
wheels.  Mercibel  has  a  permanent  position 
there. 

It  is  said  that  all  sanatoriums,  or  such  insti- 
tutions, are  replicas  of  their  superintendents. 
About  this  one  there  is  a  certain  gentle  cheerful- 
ness, a  subtle  invigoration,  which  is  Dr.  Robert 
all  over  again.  He  is  the  soul  of  his  hospital. 

I  have  noticed  that  the  preoccupations  of  very 
busy  men  do  service  as  apologies  for  neglect  of 
friendly  claims  to  an  extent  which  is  deified  in 
the  spirit  of  our  day,  like  a  scientific  error,  or  any 
other  false  cult.  I,  who  have  no  claim  upon 
this  overworked  man,  either  of  his  seeking,  or 


214     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

of  my  wishing,  or  of  the  world's  providing,  am 
touched  by  a  thoughtfulness  which  I  have  no 
right  to  exact  and  no  reason  to  expect.  When 
I  think  of  the  intricacies  which  have  resulted  in 
the  simple  circumstance  that  my  father's  house 
has  become  a  private  hospital,  I  must  feel  that 
the  hand  of  mercy  has  remembered  me. 

Once  when  Father  was  calling  on  Whittier  at 
Amesbury,  Mr.  Whittier  said :  "  I  wish  I  had 
thee  for  a  neighbor."  I  have  often  wished  I  had 
a  neighbor,  a  soul-neighbor  who  was  a  house- 
neighbor.  I  never  had  before. 

All  this  cruel  winter  my  old  friend  has  be- 
friended and  defended  me  from  every  harm 
between  which  and  myself  he  could,  by  any  in- 
genuity of  the  heart,  interpose  his  indefatigable 
tenderness. 

I  choose  the  word,  but  I  do  not  give  it  the 
lower  translations.  He  has  taught  me  what  few 
women  learn,  what  fewer  men  can  teach,  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  trustworthy  tenderness. 
I  might  almost  call  it  impersonal  tenderness. 
Language  does  not  betray  it;  expression  does 
not  weaken  it.  It  is  as  firm  as  the  protection  of 
a  spirit,  and  as  safe.  Swept  into  the  desert  of 
desolation  as  I  am,  something  upholds  me,  that 
I  do  not  perish.  Is  it  mirage,  or  is  it  miracle  *? 
There  is  a  marvel  which  many  women  dream  of 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     215 

but  do  not  overtake  —  the  friendly  kindness 
of  a  strong,  good  man. 

May  the  twenty-seventh. 

No  letter  has  come  yet  from  Dana.  It  is  now 
three  weeks  since  I  have  heard.  Once,  in  the 
winter,  it  was  four. 

"  I  would  keep  on  writing,"  the  doctor  says. 
How  did  he  know  that  I  had  not1?  Sometimes 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could  drop  into  the  un- 
fathomable silences,  and  at  other  times  as  if  I 
must.  Dana's  letters  are  no  more  natural,  I  per- 
ceive, than  mine.  Some  of  them  are  curiously 
involved  and  elaborate,  and  others  are  one  dash 
of  the  pen,  like  a  tongue  of  fire  that  may  reach 
anything  or  nothing. 

He  writes  so  frostily  in  one  letter  that  my 
heart  freezes ;  and  in  the  next  I  find  a  kind  of 
piteous  afTectionateness  before  which  I  melt  and 
weep. 

He  has  ceased  to  speak  of  making  a  home  for 
me  in  Montevideo.  At  first  he  wrote  about 
hotels  and  the  discomforts  of  housekeeping  — 
about  the  spiders  and  lizards.  After  that  he  said 
that  the  climate  would  not  do  for  Marion,  and 
that  there  was  no  doctor  in  the  whole  blanked 
country  to  whom  I  would  be  willing  to  trust  the 
child.  There  is  a  certain  something  in  his  let- 


ters  which  perplexes  me.  I  showed  one  of  them 
in  April  to  Robert. 

"  Do  not  resent  this,"  he  said.  "  Be  patient ; 
be  gentle." 

He  walked  across  the  room,  and  returned. 

"  As  if,"  he  added,  "  you  were  ever  anything 
else  ! "  I  could  have  thought  that  his  grieving 
lip  was  tremulous.  He  has  a  delicate  mouth; 
but  it  is  stronger  than  most  delicate  things,  and 
never  betrays  him. 

Did  I  once  think  him  a  plain  person?  At 
times  his  strong,  unostentatious  face  assumes 
transfigurations.  There  have  been  moments  in 
my  desperate  and  desolate  life  this  year  when 
he  has  looked  to  me  like  one  of  the  sons  of 
God. 

How  manifold  may  be  the  simplest,  sanest  feel- 
ing !  I  cherish  in  my  soul  two  gratitudes  —  that 
of  the  patient,  and  that  of  the  mother  —  to  this 
kind,  wise  man.  I  might  add  a  third :  the 
thankfulness  of  an  old  friend  for  a  new  loyalty. 
To-day  the  doctor  said  to  me,  quite  incidentally : 
"  The  next  time  you  write  to  Mr.  Herwin,  pray 
tell  him  that  I  suggested  that  he  should  hunt  up 
that  medicine-case,  and  take  atropine  3X  twice 
daily." 

"  What  for  ?     Malaria  ?  "  I  asked. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     217 

"  I  think  you  said  he  complained  of  malaria," 
replied  Dr.  Hazelton. 

June  the  first. 

MARION  had  one  of  her  feverish  turns  last  night, 
and  Ellen  went  for  the  doctor.  It  was  a  warm, 
soft  night,  and  we  had  only  candle-light  in  the 
room.  I  use  Robert's  candlestick  a  good  deal 
for  sickness;  it  holds  an  English  candle  that 
burns  all  night. 

When  he  had  stirred  Marion's  medicine,  and 
covered  the  tumbler  in  his  conscientious  way,  he 
nodded  at  the  gold  candlestick. 

"  You  keep  it  well  polished,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  It  has  proved  a  faithful  compass,"  I  answered, 
smiling  too.  "  I  believe  they  don't  always,  do 
they  ?  I  heard  the  other  day  of  a  wreck  on  the 
coast  of  Norway  which  was  caused  by  the  de- 
flection of  the  needle." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  read  that.  It  was 
attributed  to  a  magnetic  rock.  There  really  are 
such,  I  think,  though  they  are  rare."  He  began 
to  talk  about  the  coast  of  Norway  with  more  in- 
terest, I  thought,  than  the  subject  called  for.  It 
was  as  if  he  deflected  my  mind  from  the  compass. 
I  felt  a  trifle  hurt,  and  a  certain  pugnacity  into 
which  I  lapse  now  and  then  (and  for  which  I 
am  generally  sorry)  befell  me.  I  took  the  com- 
pass up  and  shook  it.  The  candle  flared  out. 


218     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

I  lighted  it  again  as  quickly  as  I  could,  for  the 
baby  complained  that  I  had  " grown  it  dark" 
and  she  could  not  see  "  her  doctor."  He 
watched  the  needle  mounting  steadily. 

"  See  !  "  I  cried,  "  the  candle  went  out.  But 
the  compass  holds  true.  The  needle  points  due 
north,  Doctor." 

"And  always  will,"  he  answered  solemnly.  In 
the  vague  light,  and  moving  away  from  me  as  he 
was,  for  he  had  risen  abruptly  to  end  his  call, 
his  strong  features  were  molded  by  massive 
shadows.  Even  in  stature  he  seemed  to  change 
before  my  eyes,  and  to  grow  tall,  as  figures  do 
that  one  sees  in  a  fog. 

June  the  fifteenth. 

DANA'S  letter  has  come  at  last.  It  is  a  very 
strange  letter.  He  offers  no  explanation  of  his 
silence,  no  apology  for  the  neglect.  He  writes 
with  a  certain  vagueness  which  is  almost  too  im- 
palpable to  be  called  cold,  and  yet  which  chills 
me  to  the  soul,  like  a  mist  when  the  sun  is  down. 
He  sends  his  love  to  Marion,  and  I  am  to  re- 
member him  to  the  doctor.  He  is  glad  I  am  in 
such  good  medical  hands.  He  mentions  again 
that  there  is  not  a  decent  doctor  in  that  country, 
and  adds  that  he  does  not  think  the  climate 
agrees  with  him,  that  he  was  fooled  on  the  cli- 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A    WIFE     219 

mate,  and  that  the  whole  blanked  nation  is  a 
malaria  microbe.  He  incloses  a  draft  (a  small 
one),  and  inquires  whether  I  had  not  better  have 
the  telephone  put  in  again ;  in  fact,  he  makes  a 
particular  request  of  it.  I  wonder  why  his  mind 
should  fasten  on  this,  the  only  detail  about  my 
life  which  has  seemed,  for  some  time,  to  take  a 
very  distinct  form  to  his  imagination,  or  even  to 
his  recollection. 

I  handed  the  letter  to  the  doctor.  Although  I 
hesitated  about  troubling  him,  I  did  not  hesitate 
about  the  letter.  There  is  seldom  anything  now 
in  my  husband's  letters  which  I  could  not  show 
to  another  person,  unless,  indeed,  I  should  not 
for  the  very  reason  that  I  could.  Now  and  then 
some  sharp  word  or  phrase  pierces  the  soft,  elabo- 
rate surface, —  some  expression  like  a  stone,  or 
a  tool,  which  did  not  take  the  frost-work,  or 
from  which  a  clouded  sun  has  melted  it, — but 
for  the  most  part  Dana  has  ceased  to  be  cross  to 
me.  Sometimes  I  wish  he  were.  I  read  a  story 
once  of  a  poor  woman  who  fled  and  hid  herself 
from  her  husband  (but  he  was  one  of  the  brutes), 
and,  being  illuminated  by  repentance,  he  sought 
and  found  her.  His  first  expression  of  endear- 
ment was  a  volley  of  oaths.  "  The  familiar  pro- 
fanity," so  ran  the  tale,  "  reassured  the  wife.  She 
nestled  to  him  in  ecstasy." 


220     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

There  is  something  in  Dana's  excessive  and 
courteous  good  nature  which  troubles  me. 

Dr.  Robert  read  this  letter  slowly.  I  had  the 
ill  manners  to  watch  his  face  boldly  while  he 

4 

did  so.  It  was  inscrutable.  He  folded  the 
letter  and  handed  it  back  without  a  word. 

To-day  Mercibel  brought  me  this  note  from 
him  —  the  first  that  Robert  has  written  me  since 
those  old  days  in  the  other  world  where  I  was 
dear  to  him.  It  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  I  am 
so  no  longer,  and  I  am  sure  he  has  forgotten  that 
I  ever  was.  I  am  quite  ashamed  of  myself  that 
I  recall  it.  Women  have  relentless  memories 
about  the  men  who  have  once  loved  and  honored 
them ;  I  think  they  cherish  these  tender  ghosts 
of  experience  after  a  man  himself  has  virtually 
forgotten  them. 

I  fasten  in  the  doctor's  note : 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  HERWIN  :  I  have  given  the 
matter  some  thought,  and  I  suggest  that  you 
have  your  telephone  reconnected,  as  your  hus- 
band seems  to  wish  it.  I  do  not  know  that  my 
reasons  for  the  advice  are  so  definite  to  myself 
that  I  can  very  well  make  them  clear  to  you : 
but,  in  fact,  I  urge  it. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  ROBERT  HAZELTON. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     221 

"Later. 

"  P.S.  I  am  called  out  of  town  on  a  distant 
consultation,  and  expect  you  and  Marion  will 
both  keep  quite  well  till  I  return.  I  shall  be 
gone  till  day  after  to-morrow.  In  case  of  any 
sudden  need,  my  first  assistant,  Dr.  Packard,  will 
do  excellently,  if  Dr.  Curtis  should  not  be  able 
to  come  to  you.  Dr.  Packard  has  access  to  my 
case-books  and  Marion's  remedies. 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  asking  the  tele- 
phone people  to  call  and  receive  your  orders 
this  afternoon.  It  may  save  you  some  trouble." 

I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  my  discreditable 
impulse  was  to  refuse  to  see  the  telephone  man- 
ager when  he  came ;  for  once  I  was  a  girl  of 
what  is  called  spirit,  and  certainly  Robert  has 
taken  upon  himself — 

What  ?  What  can  the  doctor  take  upon  him- 
self but  a  thankless  and  uneased  burden,  a 
neglected  woman  and  her  ailing  child  *?  What 
can  he  take  upon  himself  but  sacrifices  without 
hopes,  duty  without  comfort  ?  What  shall  I  take 
upon  myself  but  the  ashes  of  repentance?  I  am 
not  worthy  of  such  high  comradeship. 

I  have  ordered  the  telephone  put  in  again. 

"  MY  DEAR  DOCTOR  :  I  send  this  to  let  you 
know  at  once  on  your  return  that  I  have  obeyed 


222     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

you.  The  wire  will  be  reconnected  by  Sunday, 
and  I  shall  send  my  first  message  by  way  of  that 
old  and  reestablished  friend  —  if  I  may1? — to 
yourself. 

"  I  do  not  find  it  easy  to  express  my  sense  of 
obligation  to  you,  but  I  find  it  harder  not  to  do  so. 

"  I  have  been  everything  that  is  burdensome 
and  trying,  and  you  have  been  everything  that 
is  kind  and  wise  and  strong.  I  have  been  all 
care  and  no  comfort ;  believe  that  I  understand 
that,  even  though  I  do  not  seem  to.  You  are 
always  nobly  giving,  and  I  am  always  pitiably 
receiving,  some  unselfish,  friendly  service.  Some- 
times I  feel  ashamed  to  allow  you  to  be  so  con- 
siderate of  my  child  and  of  myself;  and  then  I 
am  ashamed  that  I  have  been  ashamed;  for  God 
knows  we  have  needed  you,  Marion  and  I. 
What  would  have  befallen  us  without  you  I  do 
not  find  myself  able  to  imagine.  I  often  try 
to  explain  to  my  husband,  when  I  write  him,  all 
that  you  have  done  and  been  and  are  to  us. 

"  Far  better  than  I  can  ever  do,  he  will  ac- 
knowledge your  faithful  kindness  when  he  returns 
to  us,  and  to  himself.  Oh,  Robert!  do  you 
think  he  ever  will?  I  am 

"  Your  grateful  patient  and 
your  sincere  friend, 

"MARNA  HERWIN." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     223 

July  the  fifth. 

YESTERDAY  I  was  really  ill.  I  think  it  was  the 
terrible  weather  (of  course  I  miss  the  sea),  and 
something  that  troubles  me,  and  the  loss  of  sleep 
caused  by  the  excess  of  patriotism  on  our  street ; 
in  fact,  this  has  lasted  five  nights,  culminating 
on  the  night  of  the  third.  The  doctor  says  that 
his  patients,  some  of  whom  are  of  the  nervous 
species,  have  suffered  to  such  an  extent  that  he 
is  prepared  to  wish  the  American  nation  had  re- 
mained in  a  colonial  condition.  He  divided  the 
entire  night  between  his  sick  people  and  the 
ruffians  on  the  street,  for  the  private  guard  that 
he  had  provided  proved  incompetent  to  cope 
with  them.  Once,  in  the  night,  I  heard  foot- 
steps outside  my  cottage,  and  looking  out,  I 
saw  the  doctor's  patrolman  softly  pacing  around 
our  house.  Nothing  has  been  said  to  me  about 
this,  and  I  have  not  told  him  that  I  know  it; 
but  the  tears  smarted  to  my  eyes  —  that  little  act 
of  thoughtful  care  was  so  divinely  like  him. 

As  I  write,  Ellen  is  singing  to  Marion  in  the 
nursery : 

His  loving  kindness, 
Loving  ki-ind-ness, 
Lov-ing  ki-i-/W-ness,  oh,  how  great! 

Every  time  that  Ellen  strikes  a  high  note  Job 
barks.  Ellen  is  a  musical  Methodist,  and  Job, 


224     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

I  have  always  maintained,  is  a  Unitarian.  I 
think  Job  misses  his  master's  singing.  The 
piano  has  been  mute,  now,  nearly  a  year ;  I  have 
never  touched  it  since  he  left.  Ours  has  become 
the  home  of  the  unsung  songs. 

I  am  writing  on  in  this  preposterous  way  be- 
cause something  has  happened.  It  would  be 
easier  to  record  any  histrionic  episode,  any  thrill- 
ing incident  of  fate  or  of  fiction,  than  the  intan- 
gible circumstance  which  I  wish  to  enter  upon 
this  candid  page. 

What  (I  think  I  have  said  before)  are  the 
plots  of  event  before  those  of  feeling?  They 
seem  to  me  inartistic  and  dull. 

I,  who  live  —  more  quietly  than  most  of  my 
class  and  my  years  —  the  secluded  life  of  a  New 
England  lady;  who  play  only  the  poor  role  of 
the  slighted  wife,  not  even  dramatically  de- 
serted ;  I,  who  have  not  the  splendors  of  a  great 
tragedy  to  throw  high  lights  upon  my  gray  story 
—  I,  too,  experience  drama. 

How  shall  I  maintain  my  untaught  part  upon 
this  stage  of  the  spirit  ?  For  me  it  confuses 
more  than  if  I  were  a  woman  of  the  world.  I 
perceive  that  I  am  not  representative  of  my  day, 
that,  young  as  I  am,  I  belong  to  an  elder  time : 
I  am  an  anachronism.  For  I  am  a  woman  of 
the  home,  and  the  homing  nature  has  sheltered 
me.  Mme.  de  Stae'l,  when  she  was  dying,  said : 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     225 

"  I  have  loved  God,  my  father,  and  liberty."  I 
have  loved  my  father,  my  husband,  and  my  child. 
Now  every  thought  is  a  spectator  in  this,  to  me, 
uneducated  action ;  every  hope,  every  feeling, 
every  nerve,  is  an  actor.  My  nature  seems  to 
be  taxed  with  a  new  and  imperious  expression 
of  itself.  Am  I  appointed  to  some  solitary  scene, 
some  thrilling  monologue,  where  duty  and  deso- 
lation are  at  war? 

WHEN  the  doctor  was  called  to-day,  he  seemed 
distressed  at  finding  me  more  ill  than  he  had 
supposed,  though,  really,  I  think  it  was  what 
many  physicians  would  have  dismissed  as  a  ner- 
vous attack,  and  disregarded.  He  said  at  once : 

"  Did  you  have  a  letter  yesterday  *?  " 

"  I  did  not  sleep,"  I  answered ;  "  the  boys  in 
the  street — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.     Can  I  see  the  letter  *?  " 

"  I  think  not  —  this  time,  Doctor." 

"  Very  well.     Any  news  in  it  *?  " 

"None.     About  the  same  thing." 

"  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  know  details. 
What  I  must  know  is,  has  there  been  an  emotional 
strain  *?  It  makes  a  difference  with  the  prescrip- 
tion. Your  pulse  is  not  quite  as  firm  as  it  ought 
to  be.  You  were  grieved  at  something  ?  You 
need  give  me  no  particulars — " 

He  turned  to  prepare  his  powders,  and  neither 


226     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

of  us  spoke.  Marion  did  the  talking;  she  trotted 
up  to  my  lounge,  and  asked  when  Pity  Popper 
would  come  home. 

"  You  are  to  sleep,  no  matter  how  much 
trouble  it  takes  to  keep  the  house  still,"  the 
doctor  said  peremptorily.  "  I  will  give  orders  to 
the  servants  myself  as  I  go  down.  Ellen  shall 
take  the  child  over  to  Mrs.  Freer  for  a  few  hours. 
I  will  ring  and  direct  this." 

He  rang,  and  Ellen  came,  and  Marion  went. 
The  doctor  went  on  folding  powders  calmly.  I 
turned  my  face  upon  the  sofa-pillow,  and  closed 
my  eyes.  I  had  on  one  of  my  thin  white  gowns, 
and  the  lace  at  my  throat  stirred  with  my  breath, 
and  tickled  my  cheek  a  little,  so  that  it  an- 
noyed me,  and  I  started  quickly  to  brush  it 
away. 

The  suddenness  of  the  motion  took  him  un- 
awares, and  my  eyes  unexpectedly  surprised  his. 
He  had  finished  folding  powders,  and  sat  look- 
ing at  me,  thinking  that  I  would  not  see,  be- 
lieving that  I  would  not  know,  perhaps  —  God 
grant  it !  —  himself  not  knowing  how  it  was  with 
him. 

It  all  passed  like  a  captured  illusion,  which 
escaped,  and  refused  to  be  overtaken.  The  soul 
of  the  man  retreated  to  its  own  place,  and  the 
lens  of  the  physician's  guarded  eyes  passed 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     227 

swiftly  before  his.  The  defense  was  something 
so  subtle  but  so  instantaneous  as  to  be  superb. 
I  honored  him  for  it  from  my  heart. 

But,  ah  me,  ah  me !  Some  other  man,  some 
stranger,  some  new  friend,  might  perplex  me, 
but  not  this  one.  For  I  had  seen  Robert  look 
like  that  —  how  long  ago!  —  when  he  was  free 
to  love  me,  and  I  to  be  beloved. 

July  the  sixth. 

I  SAID  that  something  had  happened.  What*? 
The  lifting  of  an  eyelash,  the  foray  of  a  soul. 
Nothing  more.  Yet  am  I  hurled  by  the  move- 
ment of  the  drama. 

To-day  Dr.  Packard  came  to  make  the  pro- 
fessional call.  He  reported  Dr.  Hazelton  as 
excessively  busy,  and  summoned  off  on  a  con- 
sultation by  an  early  train.  How  haggard  Rob- 
ert looked  that  last  time  he  was  here  !  He  had 
slept  less  than  any  of  us.  His  eyes  had  the  in- 
somniac brilliance  and  the  insomniac  honesty.  I 
do  not  think  I  even  told  him  that  I  was  sorry 
for  him.  The  omission  taunts  me  now  that  I 
cannot  see  him. 

SENT 

*'  3uty  ^e  seventh. 

"  MY  DEAR  HUSBAND  :  Your  last  letter  hurt 
me,  but  I  will  not  dwell  on  that.  I  am  sure  that 


228     CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE 

you  must  have  felt  truly  ill  to  write  just  as  you 
did,  and  I  am  distressed  and  anxious.  I  cannot 
think  that  the  climate  agrees  with  you,  as  you 
say.  Your  intimation  that  you  may  not  serve 
out  a  much  longer  term  in  the  consulate  would 
have  given  me  pleasure  but  for  —  you  know 
what.  There  seems  to  be  always  a  lost  bolt  in 
the  machinery  of  human  happiness.  As  you 
say,  the  mill  never  turns  with  the  water  that  is 
passed.  New  currents  sweep  the  whirling  wheel, 
and  new  forces  start  the  life  and  fill  the  heart. 
"Marion  is  well,  and  I  am  better. 

"  Your  affectionate  wife, 

"MARNA  HERWIN. 

"  P.S.  No ;  I  do  not  mind  that  gossip  about 
you.  I  would  not  stoop.  I  could  no  more  be- 
lieve it  than  I  would  believe  it  of  myself.  Give 
yourself  no  concern  on  that  score.  Whatever 
else  may  happen,  you  are  incapable  of  that. 

"  I  cannot  deny  that  it  wounds  me  that  I  am 
not  in  a  position  to  defy  the  world  and  the  worst 
with  my  confidence  in  my  husband  —  my  ulti- 
mate confidence  burning  deep  in  the  dimness 
where  the  great  elements  of  character  are  forged. 
But  of  this  we  need  not  speak.  Let  it  suffice 
that  I  trust  you,  Dana. 

"And, Dear,  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  was 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     229 

a  wicked  proverb.  It  may  not  be  the  same 
water  that  turns  the  mill,  but  it  is  the  same 
stream,  Dana." 

July  the  eighth. 

TO-DAY  the  doctor  came.  He  has  resumed  him- 
self altogether.  Except  for  a  sheen  of  his  trans- 
parent pallor,  he  was  much  as  usual  —  cheerful, 
quiet,  strong.  He  made  a  strictly  professional 
call,  and  it  was  brief.  He  regretted  that  he 
did  not  find  me  better,  and  I  protested  that 
I  was  quite  well;  and  we  talked  of  the 
weather,  and  of  Marion,  and  of  the  climate  of 
Uruguay,  which,  it  seems,  bears  an  excellent 
reputation. 

He  left  a  new  remedy,  and  rose  to  go.  Swiftly 
my  common  sense  deserted  me,  and  I  lapsed  into 
one  of  the  lunacies  for  which  sick  women,  above 
the  remainder  of  our  race,  are,  I  believe,  distin- 
guished. In  point  of  fact,  I  felt  physically  weak 
enough  to  cry  my  soul  out,  and  leave  it  for  the 
doctor  to  pick  up  and  put  back  —  as  if  one 
dropped  a  bracelet,  or  a  flower.  It  seemed  to 
me  a  laudable  evidence  of  self-restraint  that  I 
should  only  say : 

"  Why  did  you  send  Dr.  Packard  ?  I  missed 
you,  Robert." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  he  asked  gently.  He  took  my 
hand  with  ineffable  tenderness  and  delicacy,  and 


230     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

then  he  laid  it  down  upon  the  folds  of  my  white 
dress. 

"  I  think  you  are  right,"  he  said  quietly.  "  It 
was  not  very  brave.  I  do  not  mean  that  you 
shall  miss  me  too  much — nor — " 

The  sentence  broke.  His  eyes  said  :  "  Nor  do 
I  mean  that  you  shall  need  me  too  much,  either." 
But  his  lips  said  nothing  at  all. 

UNSENT    (ADDRESSED,  STAMPED^  AND  HELD  OVER) 

Undated. 

*•  DANA  !  Dana !  Come  back  to  me  !  I  fling 
my  pride  to  the  stars ;  I  never  had  any  too  much 
of  it,  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  my  dear, — not 
since  the  day  you  made  the  Wilderness  Girl 
your  prisoner, —  and  I  clasp  you  with  my  heart, 
and  cling  to  you.  Do  not  stay  away  too  long, 
not  too  long !  Do  not  push  the  risks  of  separa- 
tion too  far,  I  do  entreat  you.  .1  am  a  young 
wife,  Dana,  not  used  to  solitude  and  care,  and 
I  never  was  neglected  in  my  life  before  —  and 
you  know  I  don't  bear  loneliness  as  well  as  some 
women  do.  I  thought  I  was  a  constant  woman, 
and  I  think  so.  But  I  cannot  answer  for  myself, 
Dana,  if  this  should  last,  if  I  should  be  tried  too 
cruelly.  There  is  an  invisible  line  in  a  woman's 
nature  of  the  existence  of  which  I  begin,  for  the 
first  time,  to  be  aware.  Once  crossed,  I  perceive 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     231 

that  all  the  powers  and  principalities  of  love  can- 
not recross  it.  I  have  often  thought  it  must  be 
the  final  anguish  if  I  should  be  compelled  to  ad- 
mit to  my  own  soul  that  you  had  ceased  to  love 
me.  Dana,  there  is  a  finality  worse  than  that. 
If  I  should  cease  to  \o\zyou —  then  God  help  us 
both  !  Everything  is  mine  as  long  as  love  is,  I 
sacredly  believe  that  anything  may  be  ours  as 
long  as  I  love  you.  Hope  can  live  as  long  as 
love  does.  I  could  be  so  tender  to  you  —  yet. 
I  could  be  so  patient,  and  try  so  hard  to  make 
you  happy — yet. 

"  There  have  been  times  (I  wrote  you  so,  can- 
didly) when  I  have  tried  not  to  love  you,  in  very 
self-defense.  I  commit  that  spiritual  gaucherie 
no  more.  Now  I  summon  my  love,  and  cherish 
it,  like  some  precious  escaping  bird,  lest  it  evade 
me.  Ah,  help  me  to  cage  it,  Dana !  You  only 
can. 

"Did  you  ever  think  what  it  means  to  be  a 
desolate  woman,  to  sit  alone  every  day  and  all 
the  evenings'?  Do  you  understand  how  far  a 
little  kindness  goes  to  a  lonely  wife  —  thought- 
fulness,  unselfishness  —  the  being  remembered 
and  cared  for  *?  Did  you  never  put  the  question 
to  yourself —  No ;  I  know  you  never  did.  And 
I  say  you  never  shall. 

"  Dana,  I  ask  you  to  come  home.     It  is  the 


232     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

first  time,  you  will  bear  witness  to  me.  And  I 
cannot  tell  you  all  the  reasons  why  I  do.  In- 
deed, I  dp  not  think  I  understand  them  quite 
myself.  But  I  think  you  would  respect  them, 
and  I  must  tell  you  that  I  shall  not  ask  again. 
"  Loyally  and  longingly, 

"  MARNA,  your  Wife. 

July  the  tenth. 

I  THOUGHT  I  would  go  out  myself,  to-night,  and 
post  that  letter  in  the  old  box  that  has  stood  for 
years  on  the  elm  at  the  opening  of  the  governor's 
avenue;  it  was  put  there  by  way  of  honoring  my 
father  and  making  his  large  mail  easier  for  him 
to  deal  with. 

It  is  a  hot  night,  and  there  is  a  burning  moon. 
I  ran  across  the  lawn  with  Job,  as  I  used  to  do, 
as  if  I  still  had  the  right,  not  coming  very  near 
to  the  Pendleton  Hospital ;  but  I  could  see  it 
quite  plainly  —  the  patients  on  the  piazzas,  the 
lights  in  the  long  dining-room  windows  and  in 
the  library,  which  is  the  doctor's  office  now.  He 
was  sitting  at  his  desk,  absorbed  and  busy.  I  ran 
on  to  mail  my  letter.  When  I  got  to  the  box,  I 
changed  my  mind,  and  thought  I  would  not  do 
it.  So  I  came  back  slowly,  by  the  avenue, 
meaning  to  cut  athwart  the  shrubbery  and  come 
out  by  the  tree-house  quite  unnoticed,  for  I  felt 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     233 

as  if  all  the  moonlight  of  the  world  were  concen- 
trating on  my  organdie ;  white  dresses  do  give 
one  that  impression  on  moonlit  nights. 

When  I  reached  the  tree-house  the  doctor  was 
walking  slowly  up  the  garden  path,  between  the 
July  flowers.  He  had  one  of  his  patients  with 
him,  a  deaf  old  lady  who  is  gifted  with  fits. 

"  I  ain't  had  but  six  to-day,"  she  announced. 

Now  Job  does  not  like  that  old  lady,  and  he 
has  acquired  an  unfortunate  tendency  to  take  her 
by  the  hem  of  her  dress  and  spin  her  round.  As 
I  turned  to  anticipate  Job  in  this  too  evident  in- 
tention, I  dropped  my  letter.  The  doctor  picked 
it  up  and  handed  it  to  me. 

"  You  did  not  mail  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  decided  not  to,  Doctor." 

"Why?" 

When  I  made  no  answer,  his  face  settled  sternly. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Mrs.  Herwin,"  he  com- 
manded in  his  professional  voice.  "  I  shall  re- 
turn directly." 

"  And  only  seven  yesterday,"  put  in  the  old 
lady. 

"  Doctor,"  I  said,  "  she  will  have  sixteen  if 
Job  plays  top  with  her  in  his  present  frame  of 
mind.  I  can't  manage  him  much  longer."  For 
Job  was  barking,  and  wriggling  out  of  his  collar 
to  get  at  the  old  lady. 


234     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

Smiling  indulgently,  the  doctor  drew  his 
patient  away,  and  Job  and  I  went  up  into  the 
tree-house  to  wait  for  him,  and  the  large  moon 
regarded  me  solemnly  through  the  vines.  "  Not 
here,"  I  thought,  "not  here!"  For  I  remem- 
bered Dana.  So  I  came  down  from  the  tree- 
house,  and  went  into  my  own  home,  and  Job 
went  with  me.  In  a  few  minutes  Robert  came  in, 
knocking  lightly  on  the  open  door,  and  waiting 
for  no  answer.  He  did  not  sit  down,  but  began 
at  once : 

"  Tell  me,  why  did  you  not  mail  that  letter 
to  your  husband  *?  " 

"  Tell  me  why  you  ask." 

He  sighed,  and  turned. 

"  I  know  I  seem  to  presume,"  he  said  wearily. 
"  But  I  thought  you  would  forgive  me,  Mama. 
And  I  had  the  feeling  —  of  course  I  may  be 
wrong  —  that  the  letter  had  better  go.  Any- 
thing that  comes  from  your  heart  —  anything 
that  could  do  any  good — " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence,  but  abruptly 
left  me.  I  went  to  the  door,  and  watched  his 
sturdy  figure  quickly  crossing  the  lawn  and  the 
hospital  grounds,  till  it  disappeared  in  the  sacred 
shadows  of  my  father's  house.  I  waited  till  he 
had  been  gone  awhile,  and  then  ran  out  with 
Job  and  mailed  my  letter. 


July  the  thirtieth. 

HEATED  seven  times,  the  days  pass  through 
the  furnace.  Only  the  nights  are  possible, 
and  one  lies  awake  much  to  realize  the  fact. 
Really,  I  find  them  more  merciful  than  they  often 
are  in  this  terrible  month.  While  the  moon  lived 
they  were  solemn  and  unreal,  like  the  nights  of 
an  unknown  planet  in  which  one  was  a  chance 
visitor.  My  brain  burned,  my  head  swam;  I 
thought  strange  thoughts  and  felt  new  emotions, 
and  was  an  alien  to  myself.  Now  that  the 
moon  is  dead,  there  is  a  singular  quality  in  the 
darkness;  it  creeps  on  compassionately,  like 
delicate  and  tender  feeling,  shielding  one  from 
the  fiery  trouble  of  the  obscured  sun.  I  long  for 
the  dark,  and  when  it  comes  I  feel  as  if  it  were 
a  cool  hand,  and  I  lay  my  cheek  upon  it,  and 
am  quieted  and  comforted  —  no,  I  am  not  com- 
forted. I  have  not  heard  from  Dana  for  eighteen 
days. 

I   read  somewhere   in  a   society  novel,  once, 
16  235 


236     CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE 

of  a  husband  and  wife  who  could  not  live  to- 
gether, and  she  smiled  and  said : 

"  Dear  Bertie  is  on  a  yacht." 

But  after  a  good  while  "  people  began  to  think 
that  yachting  trip  had  lasted  rather  long."  I  won- 
der if  people  think  that  Uruguay  is  lasting  rather 
long*?  But  I  am  astonished  at  my  fixed  indif- 
ference to  that  sort  of  sting;  what  I  endure  is  so 
much  more  important  than  any  one  else's  view 
of  what  I  endure.  Married  man  and  woman 
are  a  universe  to  themselves.  Other  persons 
look  small  to  me,  and  quite  distant,  as  if  they 
were  the  inhabitants  of  a  different  solar  system. 

The  telephone  people  have  changed  our  num- 
ber. It  is  now  26  —  6,  and  went,  I  believe,  into 
the  new  book. 

August  the  fifth. 

MARION'S  head  hangs  like  a  sun-smitten  flower, 
for  the  first  dog-days  are  cruel  to  her,  and  the 
doctor  has  been  to  see  her  every  day  for  nearly 
a  week.  She  is  better  for  the  tireless  attention 
which  he  never  fails  to  give  her,  and  she  has 
grown  very  fond  of  him ;  he,  I  think,  of  her.  I 
found  him  to-day  with  the  child  on  his  lap,  and 
Dombey  in  his  arms ;  Banny  Doodle  suspended 
head  first  from  his  necktie,  which  had  been  un- 
tied and  retied  for  the  purpose  (who  can  fathom 
the  mental  process  which  leads  my  daughter 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     237 

systematically  to  deny  to  this  unfortunate  doll 
the  right  to  stand  upon  its  feet  ?) ;  and  Job  was 
crawling  up  his  back.  Job  was  engaged,  I 
think,  in  the  noble  purpose  of  rescuing  Banny 
Doodle.  Job  is  attached  to  the  doctor,  but  not 
devotedly  so.  If  the  truth  were  known,  I  think 
Job  misses  his  master,  though  he  would  not 
admit  it  for  a  pound  of  chops.  The  doctor  is 
not  the  master,  and  the  master  instinct  in  the 
dog  is  stronger  than  his  affections  or  inclinations. 
I  have  found  him  several  times,  lately,  sleeping 
on  a  glove  or  a  slipper  of  Dana's.  I  think  Job's 
jealousy  of  my  husband  has  yielded  to  a  sense 
of  anxiety  about  him.  We  are  all  growing  a 
little  anxious.  The  doctor's  eyes  ask  every 
day,  and  he  telephoned  me  last  evening  to 
know  if  I  had  heard. 

What  would  become  of  me  without  Robert  ? 
He  never  forgets,  he  never  fails,  he  never  neg- 
lects. He  carries  my  hapless  lot  as  if  it  were  a 
shield  that  he  might  be  brought  home  dead 
upon  and  not  regret  it.  He  guards  me,  he 
comforts  me,  he  "  keeps  me  from  sinking  down." 
He  counts  himself  out;  he  never  thinks  of  his 
own  ease,  of  the  burden  that  I  am,  of  the  price 
that  I  may  cost  him. 

I  am  not  worthy  of  this  chivalry.  I  always 
knew  that  Robert  was  a  gentleman, —  and,  after 


238     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

all,  there  are  none  too  many, —  but  now  I  per- 
ceive him  to  be  a  Knight  of  the  Sacred  Circle 
where  honor  and  tenderness  are  one  quality. 
He  is  faithful  to  "  the  highest  when  he  sees 
it,"  because  that  is  his  nature,  and  he  can  trust 
himself  to  his  nature;  and  I  —  I  can  trust 
him. 

I  write  to  Dana  sometimes  how  kind  Robert 
is  to  us,  and  I  have  tried  to  explain  to  my  hus- 
band precisely  how  I  feel  about  the  doctor.  I 
think  Robert  is  very  much  troubled  about  Dana's 
long  silence.  To-day  I  took  him  unawares  and 
asked  him  quite  quickly : 

"  Have  you  written  to  Mr.  Herwin  ?  " 
His  face  took  on  its  transparent  look,  whiten- 
ing visibly,  but  otherwise  he  showed  no  emotion, 
and  certainly  nothing  that  could  be  called  em- 
barrassment. 

"  Why  the  question,  Mrs.  Herwin  *?  " 
"  Don't  you  wish  me  to  ask  it,  Dr.  Hazelton  ?  " 
"  It  is  your  right,  of  course.     But  —  no  —  I 
do  not  wish  it." 

"Very  well,  Doctor.  I  will  not  ask  it  again." 
He  got  up  and  paced  the  room,  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  went  to  the  window. 
The  blinds  were  closed  and  the  light  smote 
through,  and  I  saw  the  man  as  I  did  once  be- 
fore, standing  in  a  gleaming  stream  with  the  sun- 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     239 

motes  whirling  about   his   head.     He   wheeled 

unexpectedly. 

"  I  will  not  confuse  you.  I  have  not  written 
to  your  husband.  But  if  I  should  ever  see  oc- 
casion to  do  so,  I  wish  to  take  the  liberty  with- 
out being  questioned." 

"Take  it,"  I  said.  I  held  out  my  hands 
toward  him.  "It  is  an  unrestricted  deed." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  that  you  trust  me  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  just  a  perceptible  catch  in  his  breath. 
Then  I  said : 

"  I  would  trust  you,  Robert,  to  the  uttermost 
ends  of  fate."  And  so  I  would.  Who  in  all  my 
life  has  proved  trustworthy,  if  not  this  old  friend  ? 
Only  my  dear  dead  father ;  no  one  else.  As  I 
write,  the  candle  is  lighted  by  Marion's  crib,  and 
I  can  see  the  compass  pointing  north.  There  is 
something  about  this  effect  of  gold  and  candle- 
light that  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  explain  to  my- 
self —  I  mean  the  sense  of  rest  that  it  gives  me. 
It  melts  upon  the  nerve  like  late  sunlight  upon 
green  branches,  or  firelight  upon  happiness. 
And  yet  that  is  not  what  I  wish  to  say.  I  am 
losing  my  power  to  express  beautiful  thoughts, 
so  many  tragic  ones  devour  me.  Is  the  sense  of 
beauty  meant  only  for  the  young,  the  inexperi- 
enced, and  the  happy  *?  I  have  always  thought 
it  was  safer  for  the  old  and  the  sad. 


240     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

August  the  sixth. 

I  USED  to  dream  incessantly  about  Dana.  At 
first  there  was  scarcely  a  night  that  was  not 
cruel  with  him ;  then  it  would  happen  for  three 
or  four  together,  with  spaces  of  mercy  between. 
He  was  generally  in  some  trouble  —  ill,  or  in 
prison,  or  lost.  There  is  one  Uruguay  swamp 
which  I  think  must  be  on  the  map,  I  know  it 
so  by  heart :  it  has  palmettos,  and  yucca-bushes, 
and  seven  cypress-trees  in  the  foreground ;  there 
is  an  old  bright-green  log  with  a  viper  on  it, 
coiled  (he  wrote  me  about  one  called  vivora 
de  la  cruz  because  it  had  marks  like  a  cross  on 
its  head).  Dana  stands  at  the  end  of  the  log, 
the  end  which  dips  into  the  water;  he  stretches 
out  his  hands  to  me,  and  the  log  sinks,  and  then 
the  snake  springs. 

There  is  a  prison  in  that  country,  somewhere, 
barred  with  iron  crosses  at  the  windows,  and  he 
comes  to  the  window  of  his  dungeon, —  he  is  far 
below  the  ground, —  and  lifts  his  arms,  and  I  can 
see  his  fingers  and  enough  of  his  left  hand  to 
recognize  his  wedding-ring.  But  I  cannot  see 
his  face,  and  I  wake  calling,  "  Dana !  " 

Then  there  were  dreams  when  I  saw  his  face, 
and  woke  to  wish  I  had  not.  It  was  turned 
quite  fully  to  me,  and  it  was  dark  and  offended. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     241 

I  cannot  say  that  it  was  his  freezing  face,  but 
he  was  always  inscrutably  displeased  with  me. 
Sometimes  he  retreated  from  me  across  a  wide 
country,  and  I  —  for  I  would  not  pursue  him  — 
stood  with  vast  spaces  between  us,  and  wrung 
my  hands.  At  other  times  I  could  hear  him 
calling  me  repeatedly  and  anxiously,  but  I  could 
not  see  him  at  all.  Thrice  I  lay  staring  and 
sleepless  all  night,  and  at  two  o'clock  I  heard  his 
voice  distinctly  in  my  room.  "Mama  *?  Mama  ?  " 
he  said  loudly. 

Once  I  had  a  dear  dream,  and  cried  for  joy  of 
it.  I  thought  he  came  home  and  in  at  the  door 
suddenly,  and  ran  his  hand  through  his  dark 
curls,  and  said  in  his  old  way  : 

"  Marna,  what  a  darn  fool  I  was  to  leave  you ! 
I  can't  stand  it  any  longer."  I  never  had  this 
dream  except  that  one  time  ;  and  he  took  me  to 
his  heart,  in  the  dream,  and  he  cried  out :  "  Have 
I  been  too  sure  you  would  forgive  me  ?  "  Then 
he  found  my  lips,  although  I  would  have  de- 
nied them  (for  my  heart  was  sore  with  its  long 
hurt),  and  he  said :  "  This  is  the  kiss  that  lives." 

I  do  not  dream  of  Dana  so  often  lately.  I 
think  I  am  rather  glad  of  this,  because  the 
dreams  lasted  for  days,  and  I  was  ill  as  long  as 
they  lasted. 


242     CONFESSIONS    OF  A    WIFE 

August  the  seventh. 

MINNIE  CURTIS  came  over  to-day,  and  asked 
what  I  heard  from  my  husband.  He  was  quite 
well,  I  said,  by  the  last  letter.  I  thought  she 
regarded  me  with  a  certain  pity,  expressed  in  her 
blonde  way,  without  the  complexion  of  reserve, 
and  I  wondered  why  it  did  not  annoy  me.  Only 
yesterday  the  doctor  said  to  me : 

"  The  strongest  trait  in  your  character  is  your 
indifference  to  inferior  minds." 

"  Some  one  has  been  talking,"  I  said  at  once. 
"  Not  about  — "  I  stopped,  for  I  felt  ashamed 
to  have  begun,  and  the  color  smote  my  face. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  Marna,"  replied  the  doctor, 
gently.  "Spare  yourself.  I  shall  take  care  of  all 
that." 

"  Some  one  has  been  talking  about  Uruguay," 
I  finished. 

"  I  am  glad  you  mind  it  so  little,"  he  returned 
in  his  comfortable,  comforting  tone. 

"  Doctor,"  I  demanded,  "  when  your  patients 
are  on  the  operating-table,  would  they  mind  a 
wasp "?  Or  a  hornet  *?  " 

The  doctor  smiled :  "  I  cannot  say  that  I  re- 
member ever  to  have  seen  an  insect  of  the  spe- 
cies, or  any  other,  in  an  operating-room." 

"  You  have  said  it,"  I  maintained.  "  They  are 
never  admitted." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     243 

When  Minnie  got  up  to  go,  she  went  over  to 
the  piano  and  began  brushing  the  music  about. 
I  never  knew  a  girl  with  Minnie's  nose  who  was 
not,  somewhere  in  sensibility,  a  defective. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "the  'Bedouin  Love-Song"?" 
She  drummed  a  few  chords  of  the  prelude. 
Then  indeed  I  rose  upon  Minnie  Curtis.  I 
think  I  actually  took  her  by  the  shoulder,  rather 
hard,  and  I  know  that  I  pushed  her  hand  back. 

"  You  will  not  touch  that  music,  if  you  please. 
I  do  not  like  it  disturbed." 

Minnie  colored  and  stared. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say — "  she  began. 

In  point  of  fact,  Dana's  music  remains  just  as 
he  left  it  the  last  time  he  sang  and  played  to  me. 
I  never  allow  any  person  to  touch  it,  for  any 
reason,  and  Luella  and  Ellen  are  forbidden  to 
dust  the  piano.  But  even  Minnie  Curtis's  nose 
was  equal  to  the  situation.  She  did  not  finish 
her  sentence. 

When  she  had  gone,  I  sat  and  eyed  the  music. 

I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee! 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die! 

I  whirled  the  piano-stool,  which  still  spun  with 
Minnie's  retreated  figure,  and  hid  my  face  upon 
the  rack.  Thus  and  then  I  thought  —  and  I 


244     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

record  that  I  thought  it  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  : 

A  man  selects  whom  he  pleases,  and  wins  her 
if  he  can;  he  slights  the  object  of  his  love  when 
he  will,  and  ceases  to  love  when  he  chooses.  A 
woman's  choice  is  among  her  choosers,  and  she 
is  denied  the  terrible  advantage  of  the  right  to 
woo.  Why  should  eternal  tenderness  be  ex- 
pected of  the  more  disabled,  the  less  elective 
feeling?  Why  should  the  life  everlasting  be 
demanded  of  a  woman's  love  *?  I  had  got  so  far 
when  Marion  came  up  and  pecked  at  my  muslin 
dress  (it  was  the  old  May-flower  dress  that  her 
father  used  to  like),  and  said  something  about 
Pity  Popper ;  so  I  took  her  in  my  lap  and  kissed 
her  hair,  and  I  wished  that  I  could  cry. 

When  I  looked  up,  the  doctor  was  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  I  do  not  know  how 
long  he  had  been  there.  He  glanced  at  the 
music  on  the  rack. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  use  my  horses  this  after- 
noon," he  said,  prosaically  enough.  "  I  have 
ordered  James  to  come  over  and  take  you  and 
Marion  to  drive  at  four  o'clock,  when  it  cools  a 
little.  You  need  the  air." 

He  did  not  suggest  that  he  drive  with  us,  but 
left  me,  smiling  gently.  I  do  not  think  I  even 
thanked  him.  But  Marion  ran  and  offered  him 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     245 

Dombey  to  kiss.  This  fact  was  the  more  im- 
pressive because  she  had  just  fed  Dombey  on 
raspberries  and  cream. 

August  the  tenth. 

OH,  at  last !  .  .  .  Dana's  letters  came  yester- 
day— three  of  them,  stalled  somewhere;  whether 
in  the  mails,  or  in  his  pockets,  or  on  his  desk, 
who  can  say4?  He  used  to  keep  letters  over 
sometimes,  and  I  would  find  them  in  such  queer 
places  —  once  I  found  two  in-  the  umbrella-rack. 

I  say  "he  used  to"  as  if  my  husband  were 
dead.  In  all  separations  there  are  the  elements 
of  eternity;  and  in  every  farewell  to  the  being 
we  love  we  set  foot  upon  an  undug  grave. 

Dana  writes  quite  definitely  and  kindly.  "  I 
shall  resign  the  consulship,"  he  says.  "  You 
may  expect  me  home  this  fall.  I  have  had 
enough  of  it.  I  am  convinced  that  the  climate 
does  not  agree  with  me,  and,  in  fact,  I  am  not 
very  well."  He  sends  more  love  than  usual  to 
Marion,  and  his  grateful  regards  to  the  doctor, 
to  whom  I  am  to  set  forth  the  fact  that  he  is 
taking  atropine3x.  He  adds  a  postscript: 

"  I  have  been  thinking  how  patient  you  were 
with  me  when  I  had  that  devil  of  a  grippe.  You 
were  a  dear  old  girl,  Marna.  A  fellow  misses 
his  home  in  a  blank  of  a  country  like  this.  When 
I  get  better  shall  you  want  me  back?" 


246     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

SENT 

"  August  the  tenth. 

"  MY  DEAR  HUSBAND  :  Your  letters  were  so 
long  delayed  that  we  all  had  begun  to  be  anx- 
ious. I  do  not  think  I  will  try  to  tell  you  how 
I  felt  when  Ellen  brought  them  in  yesterday 
and  laid  them  on  my  lap.  There  was  war  on 
her  old  face  —  tears  and  smiles.  In  my  heart, 
too,  were  battling  forces.  Between  anxiety  and 
joy,  between  my  hurt  and  my  love,  I  was  rent. 
I  had  waited  a  good  while  for  these  letters, 
Dana. 

"Shall  I  want  you  back?  Try  me  and  see  !  I 
hurry  this  off  by  the  outgoing  steamer  to  tell  you 
what  an  empty  home  waits  for  you  how  long- 
ingly, and  what  a 

"  Loyal,  loving 

"  WIFE. 

"  P.S.  Marion  is  better,  thanks  to  the  doctor; 
she  has  not  been  at  all  well  lately.  I  will  write 
at  more  length  to-night  about  her,  and  about 
whatever  I  think  will  interest  you.  This  note 
goes  only  to  hold  out  the  arms  of 

"Your  MARNA." 

August  the  eleventh. 

TO-DAY    the   doctor  came,   and   I    showed  him 
Dana's  letters.     I  had,  of  course,  telephoned  the 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     247 

news  to  him  yesterday,  as  soon  as  I  received  it, 
and  he  came  in  shining.  One  would  have 
thought  it  was  his  own  happiness,  not  mine,  that 
was  in  the  question.  He  had  a  high  expression. 

"  I  did  not  dare  to  hope  for  so  much,"  he  said 
joyously,  "  nor  quite  so  soon." 

"  At  least,"  I  sobbed  (for  I  could  not  help  it), 
"  he  is  alive.  He  had  been  silent  so  long,  I  had 
begun  to  —  suffer,  Doctor.  And  I  did  not  want 
to  cable  and  make  myself  troublesome  to  him." 

Something  in  Robert's  face  or  manner  per- 
plexed me,  and  I  said  abruptly : 

"  You  have  been  writing  to  him  ! " 

"  I  have  not  written  to  Mr.  Herwin." 

"  Cabled,  then  ?  " 

"  Nor  cabled." 

"You  might  as  well  tell  me  what  you  have 
done.  I  think  I  ought  to  know." 

"You  were  so  kind  as  to  say  that  you  trusted 
me." 

"  And  I  do  !     I  do !     Never  mind,  Doctor." 

"  But  I  do  mind,  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  took 
steps  to  learn  if  he  were  still  at  the  consulate. 
Of  course  I  did  this  very  quietly  —  and  suit- 
ably." 

" How  long  ago? " 

"  Three  weeks." 

"  You  did  not  tell  me." 


248     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

"  I  did  not  think  it  would  make  you  any  — 
happier,  on  the  whole." 

"  Have  you  ever  done  this  before  ?  " 
He  hesitated.     "  It  is  not  the  first  time,  I  ad- 
mit.    I  want  you  to  feel  that  I  shall  do  what- 
ever is  necessary  and  best  for  —  you  — " 

"  Robert,"  I  tried   to  say,  "  you   are   a  good 
man.     I  bless  you  from  my  heart." 

"I  receive,"  he  said,  "the  benediction." 
He    bowed   his   head    and  stood    beside   me 
quite  silently ;   and  before  I  could  think  what 
I  should  say,  he  was  gone. 

August  the  twentieth. 

IT  is  on  record  that  the  fakirs  really  do  live 
buried  for  forty  days,  and  are  reanimated.  It  is 
with  me  as  if  I  had  held  my  breath  since  the 
seventh  of  October  last,  and  now  began  to  in- 
hale —  feebly,  for  the  long  asphyxia.  Now  that  I 
know  I  need  not  suffer,  I  scarcely  know  how  to 
be  happy.  In  the  morning  I  wake  and  think : 
"It  will  soon  be  over."  At  night  I  fall  asleep 
saying  something  that  perhaps  religious  people 
would  call  a  prayer.  I  have  not  learned  to 
pray,  for  I  am  not  yet  religious :  I  am  only  dis- 
illusioned with  the  irreligious.  I  find  that  pa- 
ganism has  not  helped  perceptibly  in  that  form 
of  fate  which  has  been  appointed  to  me.  "  After 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     249 

all,"  I  say,  "  there  is  a  God,  and  He  is  merciful." 
And  then  I  sleep  —  long,  blessed  nights.  Any- 
thing can  be  borne,  I  think,  if  one  sleeps,  even 


The  days  have  wings.  They  fly  from  me 
like  strange  birds  lost  on  their  way  from  some 
tropical  country.  There  are  forest  fires  some- 
where, and  here  the  August  air  is  impearled 
with  haze,  or  smoke,  or  both.  There  is  an  unreal 
light  all  the  time.  The  sun  sinks  like  a  burning 
ship  in  a  sullen  sea,  and  if  there  were  a  moon, 
she  would  be  the  ghost  of  a  lovely  mermaid 
diving.  I  feel  excited  every  minute,  as  if  — 
God  knows  what  —  would  befall.  I  suppose  it 
is  because  I  am  so  happy. 

"  Try  to  be  calmer,"  said  Mercibel,  to-day. 
*'  It  is  quite  unnecessary  to  wreck  yourself." 

"  Mercibel,"  I  demanded,  "  have  you  seen  me 
shed  a  tear?  Or  do  any  foolish  thing  *?  " 

"  If  I  had,"  retorted  Mercibel,  dimpling,  "  I 
might  have  spared  myself  any  comments  on  the 
subject."  I  can  see  that  she  watches  me  fur- 
tively. 

So  does  the  doctor.  No;  the  adverb  is  mis- 
placed :  I  never  saw  Robert  do  a  furtive  thing. 
Rather  should  I  say  that  he  guards  me  quite 
openly.  I  think  he  has  caused  it  to  be  gener- 
ally known  that  my  husband  will  soon  be  at 


250     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

home.  He  took  us  to  ride  yesterday,  Marion 
and  me ;  it  is  the  first  time  that  he  has  done  so. 
He  looks  a  little  pale,  but  every  recurrence  of 
feeling  on  his  face  is  receptive,  as  if  he  reflected 
my  happiness.  He  has  borne  my  troubles  so 
long  and  so  uncomplainingly,  how  glad  I  am 
to  lighten  his  load !  I  wish  I  could  be  merrier. 
I  am  conscious  of  trying  to  express  the  expected 
amount  of  gladness  for  the  doctor's  sake.  It  is 
remarkable  how  rigid  the  emotions  grow  when 
they  have  set  in  certain  attitudes  too  long. 

August  the  thirty-first. 

WE  are  very  happy.  Dana's  letters  come 
more  regularly  than  they  did,  and  I  reply  fre- 
quently and  comfortably;  I  find  myself  much 
more  at  ease  in  writing  to  my  husband.  He  tells 
me  to  expect  him  when  his  year's  service  is  over, 
if  not,  indeed,  before,  and  that  he  will  soon  be 
able  to  be  more  definite.  The  neighbors  (in- 
cluding Minnie  Curtis)  come  in  and  wish  me 
joy,  and  some  old  friends  who  have  had  the 
delicacy  to  keep  silent  while  I  have  been  filling 
the  role  of  the  neglected  wife  hasten  to  share 
my  relief  from  the  position,  and  particularly  to 
congratulate  me  in  that  I  did  not  accompany 
my  husband  to  Montevideo.  "  The  child  made 
it  impossible,"  they  say  politely. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     251 

Marion  talks  incessantly  about  Pity  Popper, 
and  orders  for  a  new  bicycle-suit  have  been 
issued  in  Dombey's  behalf,  while  Job  is  des- 
tined to  a  Yale-blue  plush  ulster;  but  Banny 
Doodle,  whose  wedding-dress  is  as  gray  and  dim 
as  an  outlived  honeymoon,  is  to  have  nothing  at 
all  —  unless  the  clothes-wringer,  a  dark  fate  on 
the  teeth  of  which  this  hapless  doll  is  forever 
clutched.  "  Tell  Ellen  sqush  her  frough ! " 
commands  my  daughter,  contemptuously.  Mer- 
cibel  asked  me  to-day,  with  some  embarrassment, 
if  I  did  not  think  I  needed  some  new  dresses 
myself.  I  had  not  thought  of  it.  I  believe 
I  have  not  had  a  new  gown  since  Dana  left. 
I  compromised  with  Mercibel  upon  a  long 
white  cape  to  catch  up  and  run  about  the 
grounds  in. 

A  lady  told  me  once  that  she  never  in  her  life 
had  ordered  a  black  street-dress  but  that  there 
was  a  death  in  the  family,  and  she  had  given  up 
black  street-dresses. 

I  wonder,  if  I  instituted  a  new  ruby  house- 
gown,  if  Dana  would  come  home  any  sooner? 
Or  if  we  should  be  any  happier  when  he  did 
come  *?  Colors  are  forces,  I  think,  and  their 
power  lies  among  the  subtleties  and  the  sorceries. 
Who  knows  where  it  begins  or  ends  ?  If  the 
heart  of  the  wife  is  in  the  ruby  jewel,  the  arms 


252      CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE 

of  the  wife  are  in  the  ruby  velvet  .  .  .  Shall  I 
extend  them  ? 

My  old  gown  is  quite  crushed  and  paled ;  it 
has  a  grieved  look.  Why  do  I  hesitate  to  have 
more  wife  velvet?  Why  is  it  so  difficult  to 
renew  a  faded  rapture  *?  And  is  it  a  duty  ?  Or 
a  sacrilege  *? 

"  You  are  looking  tired,"  the  doctor  said  to- 
day ;  "  we  must  have  a  better  color  before  Mr. 
Herwin  comes."  He  talks  a  good  deal  about 
Mr.  Herwin's  coming.  He  seems  to  think  of  it  all 
the  time.  He  is  so  kind  to  Marion  and  to  me 
that  I  can  but  dwell  on  his  kindness  continually. 
It  runs  through  my  happiness  —  a  comfort 
within  a  hope  —  like  a  thread  of  silver  twisted 
with  a  thread  of  gold.  The  other  evening  I  ran 
out  with  Job  about  the  grounds,  and  I  saw  the 
doctor's  shadow  on  the  shades  of  his  office  win- 
dow; he  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  with  his  face 
bowed  on  his  hands,  and  he  looked  to  me  (in  the 
shadow)  a  lonely  man.  It  occurs  to  me  that  it 
is  rather  noble  in  Robert  to  be  so  happy  in  my 
happiness.  So  was  he  grieved  in  my  grieving; 
so  was  he  broken  on  my  rack. 

Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  he  shelters 
my  joy  as  if  it  were  a  faint  flame  that  a  rude 
wind  might  blow  out  —  as  if  he  put  his  hand 
around  it  carefully. 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE       253 

SENT 

"  September  the  third. 

"  DANA  MY  DEAR  :  I  hurry  this  —  it  is  but  a 
postscript  to  my  letter  —  to  say  that  I  am  begin- 
ning to  dream  of  you  again  (I  have  not  lately), 
and  that  last  night  I  had  the  dearest  dream  that 
ever  a  wife  had  of  her  husband  in  the  dream- 
history  of  separated  married  people.  I  thought 
you  came  home  sooner  than  we  expected  you, 
and  hurried  in,  and  said  —  But  when  you  come 
home  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  it,  if  you  will 
care  to  hear.  I  shall  not  forget  it.  Some  dreams 
are  more  real  than  facts,  I  find,  so  I  treasure  this 
for  you.  I  am  treasuring  much.  I  am  preserv- 
ing my  power  to  be  happy  (for  that  is  a  faculty 
which  weakens  rapidly  with  disuse),  and  am  fling- 
ing offmy  experience  of  suffering.  I  am  forgetting 
that  you  have  hurt  me,  and  remembering  that 
you  are  coming  to  me.  I  am  forgetting  that 
we  have  ever  failed  to  make  each  other  happy, 
and  I  am  thinking  that  we  loved  each  other 
dearly.  And,  Dear,  I  began  to  write  this  only 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  begun  to  count  the  days. 
I  think  you  will  sail  on  the  lyth  of  Octo- 
ber; don't  you?  And  that  is  forty-and-four 
days. 

"  And  I  am  four-and- forty  times  your  waiting 

"WIFE." 


254     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

September  the  fifth. 

LAST  night  I  dreamed  again  of  Dana,  and  I 
write  it  out  to  rid  me  of  it.  It  was  a  composite 
dream,  and  worse  than  any.  There  was  the  log 
and  the  swamp,  the  seven  cypresses  and  the  yucca, 
and  the  viper;  the  coil,  the  spring,  and  the  fall; 
and  there  were  the  bars  of  crosses,  and  the  dun- 
geon, and  his  uplifted  hand  with  the  wedding- 
ring.  And  there  was  always  his  dark,  offended 
face. 

Then  he  came  home,  in  the  dream,  and  he 
was  —  as  he  used  to  be  before  he  went  away; 
and  he  spoke  and  he  did  —  as  he  used  to  speak 
and  do.  And,  oh,  it  all  happened  all  over  again ! 
My  husband  was  not  kind  to  me  —  he  was  not 
kind! 

Sunday. 

I  WENT  to  church  to-day  with  Marion.  They 
sang :  "  As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and 
ever  shall  be."  .  .  .  What  if,  when  he  comes 
back,  it  should  be  just  the  same?  Will  the  ice 
in  his  nature  solidify  *?  Or  the  fire  of  it  melt  *? 
It  is  a  war  of  the  elements.  It  is  a  strange  thing 
when  a  wife  must  say :  "  I  know  no  more  than 
any  other  woman,  any  chance  acquaintance,  what 
my  husband  will  do,  how  his  character  will 
express  itself." 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     255 

September  the  tenth. 

AND  yet  we  are  very  happy.  It  is  as  if  the  bow 
of  pain  had  bent,  and  the  arrow  of  joy  were  fly- 
ing to  its  mark.  We  live  in  a  kind  of  exaltation. 
I  can  see  my  excitement  reflected  in  every  face 
—  Mercibel's,  Marion's,  Ellen's,  and,  most  sensi- 
tively of  all,  in  Job's ;  more  unerringly  than  any 
person,  Job  knows  when  I  am  glad  or  sad. 

The  doctor's  sympathy  is  a  fact  by  itself, 
something  apart  from  that  of  other  friends.  It  is 
like  the  atmosphere,  or  the  law  of  gravitation.  I 
breathe  it,  and  I  stand  upon  it.  What  was  I 
writing  the  other  day  about  elements'?  There 
is  elemental  peace  as  well  as  elemental  war. 

I  am  young  and  well  (as  women  go),  and  I 
inherit  physical  health,  but  I  think,  as  I  look  back 
on  the  closing  record  of  this  year,  that  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Robert  I  might  have  died. 

I  told  him  so  this  evening. 

"  Do  not  overestimate  that,"  he  said  quickly. 
We  were  sitting  on  the  piazza,  for  there  is  a 
warm  starlight,  and  he  had  come  over  to  see  if 
I  had  heard  any  news  from  Dana. 

"  It  would  not  be  possible,"  I  persisted,  "  to 
tell  you,  Robert,  how  I  feel  about  what  you  have 
done  for  me  —  the  kindness,  the  care,  the  trouble 
you  have  taken  for  us  —  the  obligation  — " 


256     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

Ellen,  from  the  nursery  above,  where  she 
was  putting  Marion  to  bed,  began  to  sing 
shrilly : 

His  loving  ki-i-*W-ness,  oh,  how  great  ! 

"  Listen  !  "  I  said,  laughing,  and  I  held  up  my 
hand.  It  was  my  left  hand,  and  the  moon 
blazed  upon  my  wedding-ring.  I  crossed  my 
hands  in  my  lap,  and  my  betrothal  ruby  flared 
before  my  eyes  and  his,  a  gleam  of  crimson  fire. 
The  doctor  did  not  speak,  and  I  sat  and  watched 
the  ruby  —  of  all  colors  the  glorious,  the  rap- 
turous, burning  deep  down  to  the  heart. 

"  It  is  chilly  for  you  here,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  You  will  come  indoors."  He  did  not  speak 
quite  naturally,  though  quietly  and  firmly,  as  he 
always  does.  He  rose,  and  stood  for  me  to  pass 
in  at  the  door. 

"  Are  n't  you  coming  in  *?  "  I  cried.  I  felt  dis- 
appointed ;  I  am  alone  so  much,  and  it  is  such 
a  comfort  to  me  to  see  my  old  friends  —  I  have 
not  too  many.  No ;  I  will  be  quite  candid :  it 
is  a  comfort  to  me  to  see  the  doctor.  How  could 
I  help  that?  How  could  I?  If  I  ought,  I 
would.  And  I  should  be  willing  to  show  him 
my  whole  heart  and  all  that  is  therein,  and  I  am 
sure  he  knows  that,  too.  I  have  not  a  thought 
nor  a  feeling  that  I  should  be  uncomfortable  to 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     257 

have  him  see,  and  when  Dana  comes  I  shall  tell 
them  all  to  Dana  — every  one. 

"  I  don't  think  I  will  come  in  to-night,"  re- 
plied the  doctor.  "  My  patients  — "  He  paused. 

"  How  is  the  old  lady  *?  "  I  demanded.  "  How 
many  has  she  had  to-day  *?  " 

"  Only  two.  I  should  soon  discharge  her,  but 
she  does  n't  want  to  go."  He  laughed.  .  .  . 
That  laugh  seemed  to  clear  the  air  of  I  know 
not  what,  and  I  know  not  why. 

"  There  !  "  I  said.  "  You  see  for  yourself  it  is 
much  better  to  come  in.  Your  patients  are  all 
quite  comfortable  just  now.  There  is  not  one  of 
them  who  needs  you  as  much  as  I." 

Hesitating  perceptibly,  he  came  in.  There 
was  a  fire  laid  on  the  library  hearth,  and  he  took 
a  match  and  lighted  it.  The  blaze  leaped  and 
struck  him  in  the  face.  ...  I  was  shocked  at  its 
expression. 

"  I  have  hurt  you !  "  I  managed  to  say. 

"Child,"  he  faltered,  "you  cannot  help  it." 

"  —  I  wish  to  change  Marion's  medicine,"  he 
hastened  to  add  in  his  usual  voice,  "  while  I  am 
here.  Will  you  ring  for  a  glass  *?  Or  shall  I  *?  " 

I  rang,  and  Luella  brought  the  tumbler,  and 
the  doctor  prepared  the  medicine  silently.  He 
had  not  sat  down,  and  I  pushed  a  chair  toward 
him  ;  he  did  not  appear  to  see  it. 


258     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

*'  Two  teaspoonfuls  once  in  four  hours,  if  you 
please,  Mrs.  Herwin."  His  tone  was  quite  pro- 
fessional, and  the  muscles  of  his  face  had  stif- 
fened ;  I  perceived  that  he  did  not  mean  to  stay — 
perhaps,  God  knows,  that  he  did  not  dare.  .  .  . 
Then  swiftly  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  could  have 
gone  up  and  sat  at  his  feet  and  put  my  head  on 
his  knee  —  like  Marion  —  and  cried;  and  I 
thought  how  he  would  have  put  his  hand  on  my 
head  and  comforted  me  —  as  he  does  the  child. 
And  I  was  not  ashamed  that  I  thought  it ;  but  I 
did  not  tell  him  my  thoughts.  I  opened  my 
lips  to  say :  "  Don't  go,  Doctor !  "  and  I  closed 
them.  I  should  be  glad  to  remember  that  I  did 
not  say  it,  only  that  I  am  afraid  I  said  a  thing  less 
kind,  more  weak.  For  everything  that  I  had 
ever  read  and  heard  about  friendships  that  people 
may  have  —  men  and  women,  right  women, 
good  men — came  crowding  to  my  mind.  Once 
I  thought  it  impossible  that  I  could  experience 
friendship,  or  need  it,  after  I  married  Dana :  now, 
to-night,  I  remembered  all  that  haughtiness  of 
happiness  and  that  bigotry  of  inexperience  with 
a  kind  of  scorn  of  myself,  for  I  perceived  that 
I  am  more  pitiable,  needing  friendship,  than 
I  was  happy,  having  love.  My  head  swam 
a  little,  and  Dr.  Hazelton's  face  seemed  to 
blur  and  recede  from  me  like  a  countenance 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     259 

within  a  cloud,  so  exalted  was  the  man's 
look. 

"  Doctor ! "  I  cried,  "  what  is  this  ?*  ...  Is  it 
friendship,  Robert?" 

Then  across  his  eyes  there  passed  the  sacred 
war  which  no  woman,  witnessing,  could  forget  : 
for  she  would  reverence  the  man  and  do  him 
obeisance  in  her  soul  forever,  because  his  knew 
no  reproach,  as  it  had  known  no  fear;  and  be- 
cause the  affection  with  which  he  had  honored 
her  was  a  matter  to  be  proud  of,  and  nobler 
for,  and  better  for,  as  long  as  she  should  live, 
or  he. 

"Call  it  friendship,  child,"  said  Robert,  not 
quite  steadily.  "  It  is  a  good  word,  safe  and 
strong,  and  it  is  respected  of  God  and  men." 

"  It  is  quite  a  true  word,  too,"  he  added  more 
distinctly  —  "for  you,  Marna."  His  eyes  did 
not  evade  me,  but  met  mine  wistfully  and 
straight;  they  were  as  remote  and  as  mournful 
as  the  eyes  of  some  higher  being  set  to  watch 
the  sealed  tomb  of  a  lower  life.  He  spoke 
more  quickly:  "We  must  be  honest  with  our- 
selves in  everything  .  .  .  you  and  I.  And  very 
careful.  I  try  to  be  ! " 

"I  know  you  do!  I  know  you  are!"  I  cried. 
"God  bless  you,  Robert!" 

He  held  out  his  hand  ;   it  was  cold.     I  put 


260    CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

mine  into  it,  trembling;  for  I  felt  afraid  —  but 
not  of  him. 

September  the  thirteenth. 

WHO  was  it  who  wrote  that  "God  bless  you!" 
was  equal  to  a  kiss?  Sterne,  I  think.  But 
what  could  Sterne  know  of  the  holy  war? 
the  sacred  victories'?  the  high  nature  of  a  man 
like  this?  the  soul  of  a  desolate  woman,  saved 
from  despair  because  she  had  been  understood, 
and  guarded,  too? 

September  the  fifteenth. 

WHERE  did  I  track  that  ballad  about  the 
skipper's  daughter? 

"...   a  man  might  sail  to  hell  in  your  companie." 
"  Why  not  to  Heaven  ?  "   quo'  she.    .   .   . 

It  has  doubled,  and  is  hunting  me  down. 

September  the  twentieth. 

THERE  is  no  letter  from  Dana.  And  it  is  our 
wedding-day.  What  a  freak  of  fate  that  a 
woman  should  try  to  forget  her  wedding-day! 
The  doctor  has  not  been  over  to-day  at  all. 

September  the  twenty-first. 

THIS  morning  very  early,  at  half-past  eight, 
the  doctor  came.  He  walked  in  without  ringing, 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     261 

and  called  me,  in  a  low  voice,  from  the  foot  of 
the  stairs.  I  ran  down,  and  Marion  and  Job 
came  tumbling  after.  The  doctor  detained  the 
child  gently,  that  she  should  not  follow  us  into 
the  library;  but  Job  slid  in.  Then  Robert  shut 
the  door,  and  then  I  saw  the  cold  autumn  morn- 
ing light  full  upon  my  old  friend's  face. 

"  Dana  is  dead  !  "  I  cried. 

"No — no — no!"  he  gasped.  "It  is  only — 
this." 

He  held  out  a  cablegram ;  his  hand  shook 
more  than  mine.  I  read  it,  and  folded  it,  hand- 
ing it,  without  speaking,  to  the  doctor,  who 
extended  his  fingers  to  take  it  back.  This  was 
the  despatch : 

"  To  Dr.  Hazelton. 

"  Sail  Saturday  San  Francisco.  Advised  voy- 
age round  Cape  for  health.  Have  written.  Tell 
my  wife.  HERWIN." 

I  could  not  see  quite  clearly  for  a  little,  and  I 
got  to  the  Morris  chair  and  put  my  head  back. 
Job  jumped  into  my  lap  and  began  to  kiss  me, 
whining  as  he  did  so.  It  was  so  dark  about  me 
that  still  I  could  not  see  any  object  in  the  room 
except  the  face  of  the  Yorkshire,  and  I  clung  to 
my  dog;  I  think  I  said :  "  Ton  love  me,  Job,  at 
any  rate ! "  but  I  am  not  sure.  I  did  not  think 


262      CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

about  Marion,  nor  about  any  person.  It  was 
as  if  I  were  a  girl  again,  and  had  only 
Job.  I  believe  I  said:  "Father!  I  want  my 
father ! "  but  I  cannot  tell ;  and  then  I  sup- 
pose the  doctor  caught  me  and  lifted  me, 
for  I  felt  that  I  was  slipping  sidewise  to  the 
floor. 

.  .  .  When  my  head  cleared  and  the  room 
had  lightened,  I  was  on  the  lounge.  Mercibel 
was  doing  something  to  my  clothes,  and  rubbing 
my  feet;  the  doctor  had  my  hands  in  his,  and 
warmed  them  gently;  there  was  brandy  on  the 
table,  and  his  medicine-case.  As  I  turned,  he 
drew  my  little  girl  between  us,  and  put  her  in 
my  arms.  Marion  began  to  babble :  "  Pity 
Popper ! "  Then  my  voice  came  to  me,  and 
broke  upon  me,  overcoming  me  against  my 
will.  I  am  afraid  I  said : 

"Oh,  pity  Mommer,  Marion!  Pity  Mommer!" 
No  one  spoke  in  answer  to  me.  In  the  still- 
ness I  heard  the  dog  whining.  They  had  put 
him  down,  and  he  crawled  back  upon  the  lounge, 
and  made  his  way  to  my  neck,  and  clung  there 
and  kissed  me  with  compassionate  rapture  —  my 
truest  and  most  helpless  friend. 

September  the  twenty-second. 

I.  WRITE,  that  I  may  endure :  for  it  helps  me  to 
do  so  —  it  always  did  ;  I  am  thus  created.  To-day 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     263 

the  doctor  suffered  me  to  talk  of  what  has  hap- 
pened, though  he  would  not  yesterday;  but  now 
I  am  much  stronger,  and  stiller,  for  I  will  not 
break  under  this  broadside,  nor  will  I  be  shamed 
by  it  to  my  own  soul. 

"  You  have  gained  perceptibly  since  last  even- 
ing," he  began  in  his  usual  voice.  "  You  are 
brave." 

"  I  am  the  veriest  coward  who  ever  was 
selected  to  stand  under  heavy  fire,"  I  protested. 
"  The  only  thing  is  that  I  know  it,  and  so  don't 
run." 

"•  That  is  the  way  the  best  soldiers  are  made," 
replied  the  doctor,  smiling  sadly. 

"  Run  I  will  not  —  from  this,"  I  said.  "  It  is 
a  battle  to  the  death  now.  There  is  one  thing 
on  which  he  has  not  counted  —  the  roused  pride 
of  a  tender  woman.  The  powder  was  belated," 
I  added,  "  and  it  is  smokeless,  Doctor ;  but  it 
will  do  some  execution  yet."  Something  in  my 
voice  seemed  to  wring  his  heart. 

"  Marna !  "  he  entreated  me,  "  Mama,  don't !  " 

"'  Robert,"  I  demanded,  "  tell  me  the  holy 
truth.  Nothing  less  and  nothing  else  will  serve 
me  now.  .  .  .  Has  my  husband  deserted  me  ? " 
He  had  now  quite  regained  himself.  His 
averted  profile  did  not  betray  him;  it  was  gray 
and  pinched,  but  it  is  often  so.  He  turned  his 
head  and  looked  me  nobly  in  the  eye. 


264    CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  I  will  not  deceive  you,"  he  said.  "  It  may 
be  so.  I  do  not  know" 

"  Believe  the  best,"  he  added  in  his  reasonably 
cheerful  voice,  "  until  your  letter  comes.  There 
is  to  be  a  letter  yet." 

I  said :  "  Oh,  is  there  ?  "  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  the  letter. 

October  the  first. 

AND  once  I  was  writing  notes  to  ghosts  —  my 
mother,  who  ceased  from  me  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  and  pretty  Ina,  dead  in  her  teens.  There 
are  no  ghost  letters  on  these  pages  now.  Life 
has  accepted  my  manuscript,  and  edited  it 
sternly,  drawing  his  dele-mark  through  all  the 
fantasies. 

And  yet,  I  think  if  I  could  see  my  father  for 
one  moment  - —  perhaps  he  would  find  a  way  to 
help  me.  He  always  did ;  he  was  full  to  the  brim 
of  love-inventions.  And  if  he  came  in  at  the 
door  and  said,  "Now,  Daughter — "  I  should 
expect  the  miracle.  In  the  last  few  days  I 
think  I  have  prayed  to  my  father. 

If  Dana  should  never  come  in  at  the  door 
again  —  there  is  no  letter  yet.  I  have  come  to 
regard  the  door  as  an  enemy,  as  something  forced 
between  us,  and  I  have  stolen  down  for  several 
nights  and  drawn  the  bolts,  and  slept  with  the 
house  unlocked. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     265 

October  the  third. 

THE  letter  has  come.  I  suppose  it  is  what  I 
should  expect,  and  yet  I  cannot  say  that  it  is. 
He  sets  forth  the  fact  that  he  has  not  been  well, 
and  that  the  only  doctor  he  could  get  hold  of 
in  that  blanked  country  who  seems  to  possess 
a  dose  of  sense  ordered  the  sea-voyage.  He 
takes  a  coasting  steamer,  by  name  the  Marion. 
He  will  cable  from  San  Francisco,  and  I  am  to 
write  to  the  hotel  whose  name  he  gives  me.  He 
is  sorry  to  disappoint  me,  and  I  shall  hear  from 
him  as  often  as  possible.  He  cannot  yet  set  a 
date  for  his  return,  but  hopes  that  it  will  not  be 
long  delayed.  He  sends  his  love  to  the  baby, 
and  his  regards  to  the  doctor,  to  whom  I  am  to 
express  my  husband's  warmest  gratitude  for  the 
faithful  care  which  has  been  given  to  the  family. 
The  letter  reads  like  a  copy-book  with  broken 
sentences;  there  are  several  such,  and  the  whole 
thing  is  a  reluctant  medley.  There  is  not  a 
genuine  word  in  it  from  beginning  to  end.  He 
adds  that  he  is  glad  to  leave  a  country  where 
there  are  two  thousand  species  of  insects  and 
where  the  spiders  are  as  large  as  —  something  that 
I  could  not  make  out. 

Later. 

A  SCRAP  from  Dana's  letter  fell  when  I  opened 
the  envelope, —  I  suppose  I  was  confused  and 


266      CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

excited, —  and  it  wavered  away  and  dropped 
somewhere.  Job  has  just  found  it  and  brought 
it  to  me,  wagging  joyously.  When  I  read  the 
scrap,  I  kissed  Job  and  blessed  him,  for  this 
is  it: 

"  P.S.  You  're  a  sweet  old  girl,  Marna.  For 
God's  sake,  think  as  well  of  me  as  you  can." 

October  the  fourth. 

I  SHOWED  the  letter  to  the  doctor,  for  I  felt  that 
I  had  better. 

"Is  this  all?"  he  asked. 

"  There  is  a  postscript,"  I  admitted.  "  I  do  not 
know  whether  to  show  it  to  you  or  not." 

"  Have  you  written  *?  "  he  persisted. 

"  No." 

"Cabled?" 

"  No." 

"  Are  n't  you  going  to  do  either  *?  or  both  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind." 

"  Let  me  see  the  postscript,"  he  replied  au- 
thoritatively. 

I  unfastened  it  from  this  page  and  showed  it 
to  him,  and  pinned  it  back  again  in  its  place. 
Neither  of  us  spoke.  The  doctor  went  to  the 
window  in  that  way  he  has,  and  stood  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  out  —  a  sturdy 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     267 

figure,  all  man,  from  his  strong  head  to  his  firm 
foot.  I  wondered  that  I  had  ever  called  him 
"too  short,"  and  that  I  used  to  think  him  plain. 

"You  stand  between  me  and  despair,"  I 
thought.  But  the  thing  I  said  was : 

"  Robert,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Give  me  time,"  he  answered  patiently ;  "  I 
must  think."  He  left  me  without  looking  at 
me. 

October  the  fifth. 
TO-DAY  he  came  again,  and  began  at  once  : 

"  Mrs.  Herwin,  I  have  come  to  say  that  I  do 
not  know  how  to  advise  you.  This  situation 
has  passed  beyond  me.  It  has  passed  from  the 
ordinary  to  the  extraordinary  perplexity.  I  am 
afraid.  ...  I  am  sorry  to  seem  to  fail  you ! " 
He  broke  suddenly. 

"  There  is  a  point,"  he  hurried  on,  "where  the 
third  soul  cannot  trespass.  Your  tragedy  has 
reached  that  point.  It  may  not  remain  there  :  it 
may  take  on  new  phases  .  .  .  something  where 
I  can  be  of  use  again.  If  I  can  —  you  know 
you  will  not  have  to  ask." 

I  said  something  —  I  don't  know  what  —  half 
inarticulate ;  but  he  spoke  again,  before  I  had 
finished : 

"  Just  now  I  think  only  your  own  heart  can 
counsel  you.  Follow  it.  I  can  give  you  no 

18 


268     CONFESSIONS*  OF   A   WIFE 

other  advice  to-day.  When  I  have  considered 
the  matter  further  I  may  have  more  to  say.  For 
the  present,  do  not  depend  upon  my  judgment, 
but  upon  your  own  instincts." 

As  he  moved  to  leave  me,  a  shaft  of  sunlight 
which  his  figure  had  interrupted  fell  across  the 
hair  of  my  little  daughter,  who,  running  in,  had 
sprung  upon  me  and  at  that  moment  laid  her 
face  upon  my  lap.  I  put  out  my  hand  to  smooth 
her  curls, —  her  father's  curls, —  and  the  ruby  on 
my  finger  received  the  light  deep  to  the  core  of 
the  splendor. 

"It  is  the  heart  of  the  wife,"  I  thought. 

Yet  at  that  moment  —  so  perplexed  am  I, 
so  torn  and  troubled  —  it  seemed  to  me  that  if  the 
doctor  left  me  so  I  should  perish  of  my  bewil- 
dered desolation.  And  I  did  utter  these  weak 
and  bitter  words : 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  been  so  troublesome  to 
you." 

He  wheeled  as  if  I  had  smitten  him. 

"  I  think,  Mrs.  Herwin,  I  have  deserved  to  be 
better  understood  by  you  than  that." 

Then  indeed  I  followed  the  counsel  of  my 
heart,  for  it  urged  me,  and  I  cried  out : 

"  Forgive  me,  Robert !  .  .  .  I  am  so  wretched  ! 
...  I  have  nobody  but  you !  .  .  ." 

I  got  up  to  put  Marion  out  of  the  room,  for 
it  was  no  sight  for  her,  to  see  her  mother  weep- 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     269 

ing  —  and  I  could  not  have  helped  it  if  I  had 
been  slain  for  it.  I  shut  the  door,  and  put  my 
head  on  the  top  of  the  Morris  chair,  and,  so 
standing,  I  cried  and  cried. 

And  then  I  heard  from  between  the  teeth  of 
my  old  friend  these  five  half-strangled  words : 

"  Good  God !     How  could  he  ?  " 

I  do  not  think  he  knew  I  heard  them,  and  I 
hope  he  did  not.  I  motioned  him  to  leave 
me,  and  he  did  so  instantly.  I  did  n<->t  see  his 
face,  for  I  did  not  lift  my  own. 

October  the  tenth. 

THERE  have  been  burglars  about  us  lately,  and 
the  neighborhood  is  uneasy.  I  wonder  why  I 
am  not  ?  A  burglar  is  such  a  small  trouble  !  I 
have  scarcely  seen  the  doctor  for  almost  a  week, 
and  although  I  have  been  really  ill  with  I  don't 
know  what,  I  have  not  summoned  him.  To- 
day Mercibel  came  over,  and  ran  back,  and  sent 
him  immediately.  He  was  so  entirely  himself 
that  he  put  me  at  my  ease  at  once.  Neither  of 
us  alluded  to  the  circumstances  of  his  last  call. 
He  prepared  his  powders,  gave  me  some  quiet 
professional  advice,  and  rose  to  go.  Then,  quite 
naturally,  as  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of  speak- 
ing, he  observed : 

"  Have  you  cabled  ?  " 

"No." 


270     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  Written  ?  " 

"  No,  Doctor." 

"  Are  you  going  to  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind.  Of  course 
he  is  at  sea  now.  Is  there  any  hurry  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply. 

"  If  this  is  desertion  — "  I  began. 

"  And  if  it  is  not  ?  "  interrupted  the  doctor, 
quickly. 

"  Robert,"  I  said,  "  if  you  knew  anything 
about  Dana  that  I  did  n't  — should  you  tell  me"?  " 
.  "  Perhaps  not." 

"And  yet,  if  I  needed  to  know,  if  I  ought  to 
know  — " 

"  Have  you  ceased  to  trust  me,  Marna  ? " 
Robert  asked. 

I  held  out  my  hand.  He  took  it,  laid  it  down, 
and  looked  at  me. 

"You  may  not  have  all  the  perplexity,"  he 
said  gently.  "  I  am  trying  to  do  the  best  I  can." 

"If  the  worst  were  true,  if  he  means  —  this," 
I  insisted,  "  would  you  have  me  pursue  him  ?  " 

A  terrible  gleam  flickered  in  Robert's  eyes, 
but  his  pale  lips  were  locked. 

"And  if  the  worst  were  not  true  —  if  there 
were  some  reason,  something  that  I  do  not  un- 
derstand — " 

"  Consider  this  possible,"  he  interrupted,  more 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     271 

impetuously  than  he  is  apt  to  speak ;  "  in  making 
your  decision,  allow  for  such  a  margin.  ...  If 
I  knew,  I  should  be  able  to  counsel  you.  I  can- 
not advise  you  on  a  working  hypothesis.  As 
the  thing  stands  at  this  crisis,  I  would  rather 
trust  your  heart  than  my  head." 

"Child,"  he  added,  "remember  that  I  am  not 
—  unwilling  to  do  —  anything.  I  have  a  good 
deal  to  consider  .  .  .  not  for  myself  .  .  .  but 
for  you,  Mama." 

Then  he  fell  upon  the  phrase  that  he  had  used 
before : 

"We  must  do  —  God  help  us! — the  best 
we  can." 

November  the  tenth. 

WHERE  is  that  cataract  which  spends  itself  be- 
fore it  becomes  spray  and  falls,  so  great  the  height 
from  which  it  leaps?  Nothing  but  mist  reaches 
the  ground. 

What  shall  a  woman  do  with  the  current  of  a 
feeling  fixed  at  too  far  a  height,  and  dashing  over 
to  its  own  destruction  in  too  deep  a  gulf1?  My 
love  is  a  spent  cataract,  wasted  in  mid-air.  Last 
night  I  waked  suddenly  and  found  myself 
saying :  "  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  my  hus- 
band's face."  I  have  never  said  that  before. 
It  is  as  if  I  had  blasphemed  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life.  I  quiver  with  it  yet.  When  I 


272     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

slept  again,  I  waked  again,  and  that  time  I  was 
saying : 

Oh,  each  man  kills  the  thing  he  loves ;   .   .   . 
The  brave  man  does  it  with  a  sword, 
The  coward  with  a  kiss. 

I  have  not  heard  from  Dana.  The  doctor 
asked  me  two  weeks  ago  if  I  had  written,  and  I 
said  :  "  Only  that  once."  I  kept  a  copy  of  the 
letter,  as  I  have  —  I  wonder  why  —  of  several 
letters  (but  not  all)  that  I  have  written  him 
since  he  went  to  South  America. 

SENT 

"Mr  DEAR  DANA:  I  try  to  write,  as  you  asked, 
but  my  pen  is  dumb.  What  would  you  have 
me  say?  If  a  '  man  would  kill  the  thing  he 
loves,'  he  smites  to  slay,  he  does  not  torture. 
If  you  would  tear  the  tie  between  us — be  a  man 
and  tell  me  so.  There  is,  I  think,  a  circle  of  fate 
where  a  woman's  love  will  parley  with  neglect 
no  more.  Mine  has  reached  that  invisible  cir- 
cumference. It  used  to  be  eternal  growth  and 
motion,  like  the  ripples  of  the  ether,  when  a  '* 
sacred  word  has  been  spoken,  widening  on  and 
out  forever.  Now,  everywhere  that  I  turn  I 
meet  the  boundary ;  and  I  must  say  that  I  am 
afraid  to  measure  it,  lest  I  should  perceive  that 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     273 

it  is  narrowing.  Are  you  playing  with  your  own 
soul  or  with  my  tenderness?  Be  candid  with 
me,  for  your  own  sake,  for  the  child's,  and  for 
mine.  MARNA. 

"  P.S.  Dana !  Dana !  You  ask  me  to 
think  the  best  I  can  of  you.  Then  tell  me  what 
to  think,  I  pray  you,  Dear.  Are  you  sick?  I 
would  come  to  you  anywhere,  anyhow  —  and, 
oh,  I  would  cherish  you  still.  Are  you  in  any 
trouble?  I  would  share  it  to  the  uttermost  pang. 
Have  you  done  anything  wrong,  Dana?  I  would 
be  the  first  to  forgive  it,  to  forget  it.  I  would 
help  you  to  put  it  behind  you,  to  bear  the  con- 
sequences, no  matter  what  they  are  or  might 
become.  Trust  me,  Dana.  Confide  in  me  — 
even  now.  Tell  me  the  worst,  and  I  will  be- 
lieve the  best.  Share  with  me  your  trouble  — 
I  don't  care  what  it  is  —  even  if  it  is  the  trouble 
of  ceasing  to  love  me.  Let  us  meet  that  misery 
together  as  once  we  met  love  together,  and  help 
each  other  to  bear  it  as  best  we  can,  because  we 
chose  each  other,  and  you  did  love  me,  and  I 
am  *  Your  WIFE." 

There  has  been  no  answer  to  this  letter.  The 
spray  of  the  cataract  turns  sleet,  and  I  can  im- 
agine that  in  time  there  might  a  glacier  form  in 
the  gulf  below. 


274     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

I  can  see  that  the  doctor  grows  anxious.  He 
has  ceased  to  ask  me  whether  I  have  written  to 
my  husband.  Nor  do  I  longer  question  him.  I 
can  see  that  Mercibel  pities  me.  I  thought  I 
was  fond  of  Mercibel,  but  now  I  do  not  like  to 
have  her  near  me  very  often.  I  do  not  care  to 
see  any  person,  —  I  wince  at  every  point  of  hu- 
man contact, —  yet  I  cannot  show  it.  I  am  like 
an  animal  fixed  in  a  torture-trough  by  experi- 
menters. My  house  has  become  my  world.  I 
see  my  servants,  my  child,  and  the  doctor.  He 
does  not  come  as  often  as  he  did.  I  perceive 
that  even  he  is  affected  by  the  position  I  am  in, 
and  that,  in  fact,  I  can  take  no  natural  hold  on 
life  anywhere.  Robert  is  very  careful.  The 
Knight  of  the  Sacred  Circle  makes  no  weak  mis- 
takes. Yet  I  feel  from  my  soul  that  my  fate 
bears  upon  his  continually.  I  may  be  wrong, — 
a  desolate  woman  is  apt  to  lose  her  sense  of  pro- 
portion in  measuring  her  effect  upon  a  man  who 
cares  for  her  at  all,  —  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if  my 
old  friend  did  not  forget  me  for  an  hour.  And 
when  he  does  come — oh,  God  bless  him!  God 
bless  him  as  I  never  can,  but  as  I  would,  and 
I  am  not  afraid  or  ashamed  to  say  so !  I  would 
so  bless  him,  if  I  could,  that  he  should  be  hap- 
pier, having  my  friendship,  than  he  could  be 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     275 

having  the  love  of  any  gladder,  freer  woman  in 
the  world. 

I  wish  that  I  could  tell  him  so. 

November  the  twelfth. 

HE  came  to-day,  and  I  tried  to  tell  him ;  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  must — as  if  I  owed  so  great 
a  debt  to  his  chivalry,  and  his  pure  and  high 
affection,  that  the  least  I  could  do  was  to  express 
as  much  as  that  to  him.  Why,  I  could  say  it 
before  all  the  world !  But  he  forbade  me  by  a 
gentle  motion  of  the  hand. 

"  Hush,  Marna.  You  need  not  explain  it. 
I  understand." 

"  It  is  true,"  he  added,  as  if  he  had  really  un- 
derstood the  very  words  upon  which  he  sealed 
my  lips.  "  I  do  feel  in  that  way.  And  I  am 
happier  —  as  it  is  —  than  I  could  be  .  .  ." 

"  You  need  not  explain,  either,"  I  interrupted, 
smiling.  "  I,  too,  can  understand." 

We  shook  hands  and  parted  quietly.  His 
presence  remains  for  a  long  while  after  he  has 
visibly  left  me.  I  read  the  other  day  : 

It  is  easy  to  throw  off  a  hand  of  flesh,  but  not  the  clasp 
of  a  human  soul. 

Everything  comes  to  the   spirit  at  last,   I   find. 


276     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

Might  there  be  some  subtle  and  sacred  advan- 
tage reserved  for  that  which  begins  with  the 
spirit  and  does  not  descend  ? 

Love  is  like  God,  omnipotent,  immutable,  in- 
scrutable, and  they  that  worship  it  must  worship 
it  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

Next  to  God,  the  best  thing  is  a  true-hearted 
and  high-minded  friend. 

November  the  fifteenth. 

MARION  was  taken  suddenly  last  night  with  one 
of  her  croupy  throats  (she  is  entirely  relieved 
to-day),  and  Ellen  telephoned  for  the  doctor. 
It  was  half-past  two.  He  got  over  on  the  wings 
of  the  wind,  and  lavished  himself  upon  the  baby 
for  an  hour;  nor  did  he  speak  to  me  at  all,  ex- 
cept to  give  me  professional  orders.  When  the 
child  was  relieved,  he  asked  me  to  step  down- 
stairs for  a  moment.  We  stood  together  in  the 
hall.  There  was  no  light  except  from  the  compass- 
candle,  which  I  had  carried  down ;  it  had  a  gen- 
tle flame. 

"  I  found  the  front  door  unlocked,"  he  began 
with  abrupt  severity.  "  You  had  sent  Ellen  to 
draw  the  bolts  for  me,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  No,  Doctor.'; 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     277 

"  Was  it  intentionally  unlocked  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Doctor." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  explain  why.  I  ...  feel  happier 
so." 

"Since  when?" 

"  Oh,  for  quite  a  while,  I  think.  It  seems  as 
if  I  could  not  lock  it.  I  tried." 

"  This  has  been  so  since  your  husband  cabled 
last?" 

"  Yes,  Robert." 

"Don't  you  know  that  it  is  positively  unsafe 
—  for  yourself,  your  family?  You  must  know 
that  the  autumn  burglaries  in  the  suburbs  have 
been  worse  this  year.  You  are  as  liable  to  have 
trouble  as  any  one  else,  and  you  are — quite 
unprotected." 

"  We  sleep  with  all  our  bedrooms  bolted, 
Doctor  —  thoroughly." 

"You  should  sleep  with  your  front  door 
locked  and  bolted  after  this." 

I  made  no  reply. 

"  Will  you  do  so,  Mrs.  Herwin  ?  " 

"  No,  Dr.  Hazelton." 

"  Why  not,  Marna  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  bolt  that  door,  Robert." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  doctor;  "I  shall  send 
over  a  man  to  sleep  here  after  this  —  one  of  my 


278     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

nurses.  I  can  spare  Eliot,  just  now,  perfectly 
well;  he  is  on  day  duty,  and  likely  to  be.  He  is 
entirely  trustworthy,  and  too  well  trained  to  ask 
for  reasons  why.  You  will  make  up  the 
sofa-bed  for  him  in  the  library,  if  you  please. 
He  will  come  over  to-morrow  night  at  ten 
o'clock." 

I  offered  no  protest, —  indeed,  it  did  not  occur 
to  me  till  to-day  that  I  could, —  and  the  doctor 
left  without  another  word.  As  he  opened  the 
front  door,  the  wind  puffed  out  the  compass- 
candle  and  left  me  staring. 

"  What  should  I  do  without  it  *?  "  I  thought 
as  I  groped  up-stairs  in  the  dark. 

November  the  sixteenth. 

ELIOT  came  over"  at  ten  o'clock  last  night,  and 
disappeared  from  public  life  in  the  library  sofa- 
bed.  I  slid  down  and  unbolted  the  front  door, 
as  usual,  and  slept  as  I  have  not  done  for  weeks 
—  not  listening,  nor  quivering.  Eliot  is  so  used 
to  watching  that  he  would  stir  at  any  sound. 

November  the  seventeenth. 

TO-DAY  the  doctor  found  me  grappling  with  the 
shipping  news  —  a  feeble  self-delusion.  I  never 
knew  there  was  any  before,  and  I  might  as  well 
be  turned  afloat  on  the  stock-market.  He  took 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     279 

the  paper  from  my  hand.  In  his  eyes  I  saw  un- 
fathomable compassion. 

"  I  will  attend  to  all  that,"  he  said. 

"  If  there  should  be  any  wreck  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"  There  is  no  wreck,"  answered  Robert.  "  The 
Marion  has  arrived  in  port  quite  safely." 

"  How  long  have  you  known  this  *?  "  I  asked, 
when  my  head  ceased  whirling. 

"  About  two  weeks." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Would  it  have  done  any  good  *?  been  any 
easier  *?  I  tried  to  choose  the  lesser  pang  for  you." 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  I  felt  that  the 
misery  in  my  eyes  leaned  upon  the  chivalry  in 
his  too  utterly,  too  heavily.  I  turned  my  face 
away. 

November  the  twentieth. 

TOLSTOI  says  that  people  should  marry  in  the 
same  way  as  they  die — "only  when  they  cannot 
do  otherwise." 

In  the  main  condition  of  civilized  human  hap- 
piness, is  there  a  terrible  structural  fault  ?  Is 
the  flaw  in  the  institution  of  marriage  itself? 
Or  is  it  in  the  individual  *? 

Why  did  Dana  find  it  impossible  to  be  happy 
on  the  terms  of  married  life  ?  Other  men  are. 
.  .  .  But  are  they  ?  Is  society  dancing  under 
a  white  satin  mask  —  the  sob  or  the  grimace 


280     CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE 

beneath?  Is  my  lot  only  more  crudely  or  vul- 
garly expressed  than  others  selected  from  the 
general  experience  —  a  cry  instead  of  a  satire  ? 
Dana  loved  me  —  madly  once,  dearly  after- 
ward. Why  did  not  the  dearness  remain  when 
the  madness  had  gone  *?  Must  a  man  cease  to 
value  because  he  has  won  ?  Is  this  a  racial 
trait1?  Or  Dana's  trait1?  Am  I  meeting  the 
personal  misery  *?  or  the  fate  of  my  sex  *?  Why, 
when  I  endured  so  much,  could  he  bear  so 
little  *?  How,  when  I  cherished,  could  he  neg- 
lect *?  Why,  when  my  tenderness  clung,  could 
his  unclasp*? 

Once  I  was  a  proud  girl.  Plainly  I  should 
never  have  become  a  loving  wife.  That  was  a 
mistranslation  of  nature.  It  was  the  Descent  of 
Woman.  If  this  which  has  befallen  me  is  Man, 
not  Dana,  then  some  woman  of  us  should  lift 
her  voice  and  warn  the  women  of  the  world 
what  woe  awaits  them  in  the  subterfuge  of  love. 
Now  I  remember  my  dream  —  how  I  sat  in  the 
amphitheater  arid  saw  myself  and  Dana  on  the 
stage,  and  blamed  myself  for  the  excessive  part 
that  I  played  in  my  tragedy,  and  the  house  rose 
upon  me,  for  it  was  serried  of  women,  and  they 
said  :  "  You  are  ours,  and  of  us,  forever  ";  and 
I  cried  out  upon  them  :  "  Then  womanhood  and 
manhood  are  at  civil  war !  " 


CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE       281 

Why  does  a  woman  trust  herself  to  love  or 
to  her  lover  ?  Friendship  is  the  safer  as  it  is 
the  saner  thing. 

If  it  is  Man,  not  Dana  —  what  then,  I  say? 
It  is  conceivable  that  the  time  might  come  when 
the  Princess  in  the  great  Medley  of  Life  should 
make  no  feint  of  battle, — to  be  beaten,  poor  girl, 
by  all  the  military  laws, —  but  in  some  later, 
wiser  day  should  gather  her  forces,  and  order  her 
heralds,  and  proclaim  the  evolution  of  her  will : 
"  We  give  you  all  that  history  has  taught  us  you 
can  be  trusted  with  —  our  friendship,  sirs.  For 
the  rest,  we  do  reserve  ourselves." 

There  is  no  word  from  Dana,  yet,  of  any  kind. 
Every  one  has  ceased  to  speak  to  me  about  my 
husband. 

November  the  twenty-fourth. 

LAST  night  a  strange  thing  happened.  It  was 
pretty  late,  as  much  as  half-past  eleven,  and  Eliot 
had  come  in  and  was  asleep  (or  he  says  he  was)  in 
the  sofa-bed.  I  had  not  slept  at  all.  The  tele- 
phone called  sharply  —  I  think  it  was  twenty- 
five  minutes  to  twelve,  for  the  compass-candle 
showed  my  watch  as  I  sprang.  I  got  into  my 
old  ruby  negligee  and  ran.  Eliot,  in  his  nurse's 
dressing-gown,  stood  tall  and  lank  in  the  hall. 
He  had  the  receiver  at  his  ear.  As  I  flew  down 
the  stairs  he  was  saying : 


282     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

«  26—6  ?     Yes,  this  is  26—6." 


"  Mrs.  Herwin's  ?  Yes.  This  is  Mrs.  Her- 
win's  house.  Yes,  she  is  at  home  —  yes.  I  will 
call  her." 


"  Yes ;  Mrs.  Herwin  is  coming.  Hold  the 
wire." 

I  took  the  receiver  from  his  hand,  and  he 
stepped  back.  I  motioned  to  him  to  return  to 
the  library.  He  did  so,  and  I  think  he  shut  the 
door.  I  said : 

"  Who  wishes  Mrs.  Herwin  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply.  I  repeated  my  ques- 
tion, more  loudly  and  quite  distinctly  ;  but  there 
was  no  answer.  In  a  kind  of  nervous  fright  I 
rang  the  Central  peremptorily.  The  night  oper- 
ator, stupid  with  sleep,  was  inclined  to  view  the 
summons  in  the  light  of  a  personal  offense. 

"  You  've  cut  me  off !  "  I  cried.  "  Give  me 
my  message." 

The  night  operator  made  some  inarticulate 
answer  —  Dana  would  have  called  it  actionable. 
He  said  the  baby  used  actionable  language 
when  she  cried. 

"  Please  give  me  my  message ! "  I  pleaded. 
"  It  may  be  very  important.  I  must  have  that 
message.  Oh,  do  give  me  my  message  !  " 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     283 

"  Great  Scott ! "  said  the  night  operator.  .The 
night  was  windy  and  cold,  and  the  wires  sang 
wildly.  As  I  stood  waiting,  the  noise  deepened ; 
it  was  as  if  the  electric  forces  pitted  themselves 
against  me,  that  I  should  not  have  the  message. 
I  threw  the  whole  power  of  my  voice  upon 
them: 

"  Who  wants  Mrs.  Herwin  ?  Here  she  is. 
I  am  here"  I  repeated  clearly. 

Faint,  far,  infinitely  far,  jarred  and  jagged,  like 
a  cry  coming  from  a  falling  star,  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  a  voice  replied.  But  what  it  said  I  could 
not  hear — I  do  not  know.  The  rage  of  the  wires 
increased.  I  called  till  I  was  spent.  The  elec- 
tric protest,  as  if  hurled  from  a  mighty  throat, 
grew  into  a  roar.  It  was  now  impossible  to 
communicate  even  with  our  own  exchange. 
The  cold  drops  started  upon  me  —  I  do  not 
know  why.  I  experienced  a  kind  of  super- 
natural fear. 

The  library  door  opened  and  the  nurse 
stepped  out. 

"  Come  away,  Mrs.  Herwin,"  said  Eliot,  sud- 
denly. "  It  is  of  no  use.  I  will  call  the  doctor." 

"You  can't,"  I  protested;  "the  wires  won't 
work.  Listen  to  that  roar !  Horrible ! "  I  put 
the  receiver  to  his  ear. 

"  It  does  sound  ugiy,"  admitted  Eliot.     He 


284     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

was  now  dressed,  and  he  put  on  his  hat  to  go 
for  the  doctor. 

"Go  back  to  bed,"  I  said  peremptorily. 
"  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  that  the  doctor 
can  do.  Why  should  you  rouse  that  tired  man  ? 
Tell  him  in  the  morning." 

"  I  am  not  your  patient,"  I  maintained,  when 
the  nurse  hesitated ;  "  I  am  your  hostess.  Go 
back  to  bed,  Mr.  Eliot." 

With  no  more  words,  he  went.  I  crawled  up- 
stairs, and  lay  staring  till  dawn.  The  white  elec- 
tric light  of  the  street-lamp  that  I  have  always 
loved,  and  Dana  used  to  like,  flooded  the  lonely 
room.  The  telephone  wires  raved  on  the  roof 
of  the  house,  and  the  banshee  suddenly  joined 
them. 

November  the  twenty-fifth. 

THE  doctor  was  disturbed  by  the  telephone  story, 
but  he  would  not  discuss  it  with  me.  He  and 
Eliot  have  been  in  some  sort  of  consultation,  and 
it  is  my  opinion  that  Robert  went  in  person  to 
the  exchange  to-day.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to 
do  as  much  —  I  am  so  used  to  the  doctor's 
thinking  of  everything. 

"Have  you  found  out  where  the  message 
came  from  ?  "  I  asked  him  suddenly. 

He  shook  his  head.  I  was  so  sure,  however, 
he  had  heard  something,  that  I  insisted : 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     285 

"  What  was  it,  Robert  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  long-distance  call,"  he  said. 

There  was  no  repetition  of  the  call  last  night. 

November  the  twenty-seventh. 

LAST  night  at  half-past  twelve  — *  I  had  not  slept, 
but  was  lying  in  my  old  red  gown,  all  ready  for 
any  summons  —  the  telephone  called  again,  and 
again  I  ran. 

This  time  I  was  in  advance  of  Eliot ;  in  fact, 
the  nurse  seemed  to  have  slept  through  the  ring- 
ing of  the  call-bell,  at  which  I  was  surprised ;  he 
did  not  come  out  of  the  library,  and  I  answered 
the  call  myself. 

The  night  was  as  mute  as  eternity,  and  the 
wires  were  clear  and  calm.  Again,  as  before,  a 
distant  operator  asked : 

"Is  this  26  —  6?" 

"This  is  26  —  6." 

"  Mrs.  Herwin's  house  *?  " 

"  It  is  Mrs.  Herwin's  house." 

"  I  wish  to  speak  with  Mrs.  Herwin." 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Herwin." 

A  clumsy  silence  intervened.  Then  I  heard 
the  distant  operator  say : 

"Here 's  your  party.  Why  don't  you  speak  up*?" 

A  faint  voice  feebly  uttered  an  indeterminate 
sound. 


286     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"Who  wants  Mrs.  Herwin  *?  0/6,  who  are 
you?"  I  cried. 

The  unsuccessful  articulation]  struggled  and 
fell  feebly  from  the  wire.  The  distant  operator 
took  offense. 

"  Why  don't  you  talk,  now  you  've  got  your 
party"?  You  've  got  no  more  voice  than  a 
ghost.  Speak  up,  man,  in  Heaven's  name ! 
Can't?  .  .  .  Mrs.  Herwin,  the  party  can't  talk. 
He  can't  be  heard.  And  he  won't  talk  through 
me.  He  seems  to  be  an  obstinate  party  — 
he—" 

The  distant  operator's  voice  died  down.  I 
called,  I  rang,  I  threatened,  I  pleaded.  The 
message  was  cut  off  as  utterly  as  the  voices  of 
the  dead. 

The  receiver  shook  so  in  my  hand  that  I 
could  not  hang  it  up,  and  while  I  was  fumbling 
to  do  so  I  felt  it  taken  from  me.  I  said :  "  Thank 
you,  Eliot."  But  it  was  not  Eliot.  Ashen  and 
stiff,  the  doctor's  face  regarded  mine. 

"  Am  .1  too  late  ?  "  he  asked  hoarsely.  "  Eliot 
did  as  well  as  he  could.  It  took  time.  Let  me 
come,  Mrs.  Herwin." 

As  I  stepped  aside  for  him  to  take  my  place 
at  the  telephone,  I  perceived  the  impassive  face 
of  the  nurse ;  he  was  shutting  the  library  door 
to  go  back  to  his  sofa-bed.  What  orders  had 


1  LET    ME    COME,     MRS.     HERWIN. 


CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE     287 

he  received  and  (I  must  say  admirably)  exe- 
cuted ? 

To  leave  me  to  answer  the  call-bell?  To  slip 
out  of  the  window  and  summon  the  doctor  *? 

Peremptorily,  in  the  professional  tone,  this 
order  came : 

"Mrs.  Herwin,  go  into  the  parlor  and  lie 
down  on  the  sofa  till  I  call  you." 

I  obeyed.  The  doctor  stood  at  the  telephone 
a  long  time.  Fragments  of  what  he  was  saying 
fell,  but  I  did  not  try  to  gather  them.  I  knew 
everything  would  be  right,  everything  would  be 
done,  now  that  he  was  there.  Presently  he  hung 
up  the  receiver  and  came  into  the  dark  room; 
he  had  the  compass-candle  in  his  hand. 

"  I  have  learned  where  the  call  came  from," 
he  said  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone  —  as  if  it  were 
hardly  worth  speaking  of. 

I  sprang. 

"From  a  town  in  Minnesota,"  proceeded 
Robert,  quietly.  "  The  name  is  Healer  —  one 
of  those  queer  Western  names." 

I  tried  to  speak,  but  I  do  not  think  I  suc- 
ceeded. I  believe  I  meant  to  ask  if  he  thought 
it  were  a  real  town,  and  my  dry  lips  stupidly 
struggled  with  the  words  :  "  I  never  heard  of  such 
a  place  " —  as  if  that  fact  bore  upon  the  case  at  all. 

"I  happen  to  have  some  professional  know- 


288     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

ledge  of  the  village,"  observed  the  doctor, 
"though  that  does  n't  amount  to  much.  It  is 
near  St.  Paul  —  this  side.  St.  Paul  is  about  as 
far  as  the  telephone  goes." 

Then  I  cried  out  upon  him : 

"Oh,  is  there  no  way1?  Can't  you  find  out 
anything  more  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  my  best,"  said  Robert,  patiently. 


VII 


December  the  first. 

THERE  have  been  no  more  telephonic  mys- 
teries; the  call-bell  hangs  mute  all  night. 
I  think  Eliot  has  been  ordered  to  sleep  with  his 
door  open.  Only  the  banshee  parts  her  lips,  and 
there  are  times  when  she  wails  from  bedtime  till 
breakfast ;  usually  this  happens  with  a  west  wind. 
The  doctor  is  absorbed,  and  the  horizontal  lines 
of  anxiety  in  his  forehead  are  heavily  carved.  I 
cannot  make  out  what  he  is  thinking,  for  I  am 
never  told  unless  he  chooses  to  have  me  know, 
while  yet,  oddly  enough,  I  do  not  feel  at  all 
hurt  if  he  does  not  tell.  It  was,  in  fact,  three 
days  after  the  last  midnight  summons  before  I 
knew  that  he  had  succeeded  in  tracing  the  first 
telephone  call  to  its  source.  The  company,  it 
seems,  had  put  every  agency  at  his  disposal,  and 
had  hunted  down  this  last  message.  Twelve  hun- 
dred miles  between  it  and  me !  It  had  started 
from  one  of  the  uttermost  stations  where  the  blue 
bell  hangs ;  beyond  which  there  is  no  practicable 

289 


290     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

conversation  between  the  West  and  the  East.  I 
asked  the  name  of  the  place. 

"  This  message  came,"  replied  the  doctor, 
"  from  a  pay-station  in  a  drug-store.  The  name 
was  Pooltiss  —  a  queer  one,  was  n't  it  ?  The 
number  was  207 — 3." 

He  did  not  look  at  me  as  he  dwelt  on  these 
unnecessary  details. 

"  And  the  town  "?  " 

"Omaha."- 

"  He  may  be  dying  ! "  I  cried. 

Robert  shook  his  head. 

"  Sick  ?  In  trouble  ?  In  need  ?  Wandering 
from  place  to  place  —  homeless !  He  has  gone 
back,  farther  West,  has  n't  he  *?  " 

The  doctor  did  not  answer. 

"  Or  he  may  be  —  thoughtless.  He  used  so 
often  to  say,  4  Oh,  I  did  n't  mean  anything.'  He 
may  not  mean  anything  by  this.  Or  it  may  not 
be  he  at  all." 

"  Any  of  these  things  is  possible." 

"  He  ought  to  come  home  to  his  wife ! "  I 
said  below  my  breath.  I  have  never  spoken  so 
before,  not  even  to  Robert.  But  there  is  some- 
thing, as  I  told  him  once,  in  the  roused  pride  of 
a  tender  woman  with  which  a  man  must  reckon, 
first  or  last.  Mine  battles  with  my  tenderness 
and  plays  victor  with  me  now,  at  this  bewil- 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     291 

dered  time — of  all  times,  that  when  I  should 
have  expected  myself  to  melt  with  love  and 
longing.  I  feel  but  little  longing  for  my  hus- 
band, and  how  much  love  I  will  not,  must  not, 
dare  not,  ask  myself.  The  strongest  tie  between 
the  married  is  the  love  of  the  wife ;  I  am  con- 
vinced that  more  marriages  are  saved  from  de- 
struction by  this  than  by  any  other  fact  in  life. 
If  my  love  for  Dana  is  perishing  —  whose  fault 
is  that  *?  How  has  he  flung  from  him  the  trea- 
sure that  he  had'?  I  who  gave  him  my  utter- 
most, I  who  made  a  subject  of  my  sovereign 
soul  before  his  lightest  whim,  I  who  bent  my 
will  before  his,  as  if  one  melted  a  steel  blade  in  a 
mighty  fire  and  folded  it  back  upon  itself,  lay- 
ing it  white  and  gleaming  at  his  feet, —  I, 
Wilderness  Girl  made  Wife,  Pride  beaten  into 
Love, —  how,  God  forgive  him,  has  he  treated 
me?  ... 

"  He  ought  to  come  home  to  his  wife  !  "  I  re- 
peated aloud.  It  was  as  if  I  were  willing  the 
whole  world  should  know  what  I  said.  Then  I 
heard  my  old  friend  speaking  ;  his  voice  seemed 
to  come  from  a  great  distance. 

"  Be  patient,  Mama.  Be  gentle.  Believe  the 
best.  Wait  a  little.  There  may  be  reasons  — " 

He  turned  away  from  me,  halted,  came  back, 
and  looked  at  me  with  wretched,  noble  eyes. 


292     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  Love  him  as  long  as  you  can,"  he  said  gen- 
tly. "  Try  for  a  while  longer.  It  is  worth  .  .  . 
trying  .  .  .  suffering  ...  to  save  a  married  love." 

Before  I  could  answer,  he  had  shut  the  door 
and  gone.  I  went  up  and  took  hold  of  the  knob, 
and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  write  what  I  did.  I 
went  up  and  bent  my  face  and  put  my  cheek 
to  the  door,  where  his  hand  had  touched  it. 

"You  are  the  best  man  I  ever  knew,"  I 
thought. 

Later. 

I  CANNOT  sleep.  I  have  been  thinking  of  the 
evening  when  Robert  asked  me  to  marry  him. 
It  was  the  first  winter  that  Dana  was  reading  to 
Father.  They  were  in  the  library,  and  Robert  and 
I  were  in  the  drawing-room ;  and  I  had  on  a  rose- 
pink  dress  with  white  chiffon,  and  the  slippers 
matched,  and  Robert  liked  the  dress. 

To  him  I  |said :  "  I  am  fond  of  you,  Robert, 
but  I  do  not  love  you.  I  could  never  love  you 
so  as  to  marry  you.  I  do  not  want  to  be  any- 
body's wife."  In  my  own  mind  I  said  :  "  You 
are  too  short.  And  you  are  very  plain.  And 
you  are  very  old — as  much  as  thirty." 

December  the  second. 

ELIOT  does  not  come  any  more;  I  don't  know 
why.  He  has  been  suddenly  taken  away  and 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     293 

put  on  duty  elsewhere.  The  doctor  suggested 
another  nurse  — I  think  his  name  was  Peterkin; 
but  I  objected  to  Peterkin. 

*'  Then,"  be  observed,  "  you  will  lock  the 
front  door  ?  " 

I  shook  my  head.  Now  why,  I  wonder,  did  I 
shake  my  head?  Why,  when  I  feel  so  about 
Dana,  why,  when  Dana  has  treated  me  so,  why 
do  I  not  bolt  the  door  ? 

I  cannot  perplex  the  doctor  worse  than  I  puz- 
zle myself.  He  has  sent  our  old  James  over  to 
stay  nights  here  till  Eliot  is  at  liberty  again. 
James  is  quite  shocked  at  sleeping  in  the  library. 
He  never  did  such  a  thing  in  the  governor's 
house.  But  he  calls  me  Miss  Mama,  and  there  's 
some  comfort  in  that.  I  wonder  what  has  be- 
come of  Eliot? 

There  have  been  no  more  telephone  calls, 
which  is  convenient,  for  I  am  sure  the  last 
trumpet  would  have  its  hands  full  if  it  tried  to 
wake  up  James.  He  used  to  sleep  in  the  coach- 
house, with  four  horses  trampling  beneath. 

So  I  listen  for  the  telephone.  I  do  not  sleep 
much. 

December  the  tenth. 

THE  telephone  continues  dumb.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve those  calls  were  from  anybody  in  par- 
ticular at  all;  some  operator's  blunder,  most 


294     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

likely,  as  I  told  the  doctor.     The  doctor  made 
no  answer. 

In  fact,  nothing  has  happened,  and  everything 
has  happened,  for  Robert  has  gone  away  on  a 
vacation.  He  has  had  no  vacation  since  he 
started  the  hospital;  all  summer  he  stood  by  his 
post,  when  other  men  were  off.  I  suppose  he 
does  need  it.  I  should  not  have  believed  that  I 
would  miss  the  doctor  so. 


It  is  not  a  frequented  part  of  the  river. 


December  the  thirteenth. 

MARION  has  a  cold,  and  we  have  had  to  send  for 
Dr.  Packard.  I  don't  think  he  understands  the 
child  in  the  least.  I  wish  Robert  would  come 
back.  I  am  lost  in  a  hieroglyph.  I  thought  I 
knew  what  solitude  was;  now  I  perceive  that  I 
never  had  the  key  to  the  cipher.  I  am  so  lonely 
that  I  am  frightened.  If  there  were  a  spot  in 
the  world  where  I  could  go  and  hurl  myself  into 
space,  I  think  I  should  do  it.  I  used  to  have 
fancies  about  letting  myself  out  of  a  window  in 
easterly  storms  when  I  was  a  girl  and  comfort- 
able. Now  that  I  am  a  wife  and  wretched,  a 
window  seems  a  small  outlet.  I  want  something 
vast  and  daring — a  desperate  leap  into  a  fathom- 
less fate.  What  could  be  worse  than  to  go  on 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     295 

tamely  where  and  as  I  am?  Who  will  teach 
me  how  to  escape  myself?  What  philosophy 
is  there  for  a  woman  whose  whole  being  has 
been  turned  back  upon  itself,  a  mighty  current 
dammed,  and  toppling— forbidden  in  the  essence 
of  her  nature  ?  What  shall  be  done  for  an  un- 
dervalued tenderness?  What  can  friendship 
offer  to  a  deserted  wife  ? 

The  doctor  does  not  write  to  me.     I  suppose, 
in  fact,  he  is  under  no  obligation  to  do  so. 

December  the  fourteenth. 

I  HAVE  had  a  note  from  the  doctor.  It  was 
mailed  on  the  cars  somewhere, — I  could  not  make 
out  where, — and  it  was  so  hurriedly  written  that 
he  forgot  to  date  it.  He  writes  most  kindly, 
most  thoughtfully.  He  begs  me  to  be  quiet 
and  brave,  not  to  give  up  either  hope  or  any- 
thing else.  He  is  sorry  to  have  to  leave  me 
just  at  this  trying  time;  he  will  not  be  gone  a 
day  longer  than  is  really  necessary, —  he  reminds 
me  with  a  touching  gentleness  that  he  really 
needed  the  vacation,  for  he  is  pretty  tired, — and 
he  will  write  me  when  he  can.  If  I  have  any 
more  telephone  messages,  I  am  to  repeat  them 
to  him,  in  care  of  the  Central  Exchange  both  in 
New  York  and  in  Chicago,  as  his  movements 
are  a  little  uncertain,  and  he  would  not  wish  to 


296     CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE 

be  beyond  my  reach  in  any  emergency.  And  I 
am  not  to  feel  that  he  has  forgotten  my  difficul- 
ties for  an  hour,  but  that  he  is  doing  the  best  he 
can  for  all  concerned.  He  signs  the  letter : 

"Faithfully  your  friend,  and  Dana's, 

"  ROBERT  HAZELTON." 

Oh,  God  bless  him,  God  bless  him !  And  I 
don't  care  if  that  is  "equal  to  a  kiss."  Of  such 
is  the  tenderness  that  the  whole  wide  world 
might  see  and  be  the  better  for.  The  grateful 
affection  of  an  unhappy  woman,  indebted  above 
measure  to  a  good,  unselfish  man,  is  not  a  thing 
to  feel  ashamed  of  or  to  hide. 

December  the  fifteenth. 

THIS  evening  the  telephone  called  again.  It 
was  quite  early,  hardly  nine  o'clock,  and  James 
had  not  come  in.  Mercibel  had  been  over,  but 
did  not  stay;  it  was  her  evening  off  duty,  and 
she  was  on  her  way  to  see  her  children;  they 
live  with  their  grandmother.  If  I  had  to  board 
Marion  with  relatives,  and  work  for  my  living 
and  hers,  I  wonder  should  I  be  more,  or  less, 
unhappy? 

"  Sorrow  has  her  elect,"  Mercibel  says.  The 
relativity  of  trouble  is  a  mystery  of  which  I  am 
just  beginning  to  be  aware.  The  doctor  has  a 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE       297 

paralyzed  patient  who  says  her  ideal  of  human 
happiness  is  to  be  able  to  walk  across  the  room 
and  get  her  own  tooth-brush.  (He  is  curing  the 
patient.) 

My  telephone  call  was  from  the  doctor.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  long-distance  call,  but  I  could 
hear  his  voice  quite  readily  and  perfectly  —  his 
dear  voice.  Oh,  I  will  be  honest  with  my  own 
soul !  It  is  a  dear  voice  to  me  ;  there  is  not  a 
cadence  of  its  quietness  and  strength  which  does 
not  hold  just  so  much  self-forgetting,  me-remem- 
bering  melody.  There  are  certain  tones  at  which 
my  spirits  rise  like  leaves  in  a  strong  wind,  and 
seek  the  skies  —  my  poor,  disordered,  disheart- 
ened spirits  —  as  if  they  were  birds.  There  are 
certain  others  before  which  every  nerve  in  my  soul 
and  body  calms  and  rests.  The  voice  is  the  man, 
and  Robert's  has  stood  between  me  and  despair 
(I  believe  I  have  said  this  before,  at  some  time ; 
whether  I  have  or  not,  I  think  it  all  the 
time)  —  his  voice  has  stood  between  me  and 
despair  so  long  that  I  cannot  help  loving  it. 
Why  need  I  ? 

He  did  not  say  very  much  by  the  telephone ; 
only  to  ask  if  I  kept  well,  and  Marion,  and 
if  I  had  heard  any  news  that  I  wished  him  to 
know. 

"  Do  not  feel  that  you  are  forgotten,"  he  said. 


298     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  I  shall  not  be  beyond  reach  of  helping  you  in 
any  emergency." 

"  Have  courage,"  he  added.  "  Be  hopeful. 
Better  things  than  you  fear  may  be  possible.  I 
am  telephoning  you  to-night  to  say  this.  Keep 
well.  Be  quiet.  Be  strong.  Be  brave." 

His  resonant  voice  reverberates  in  my  ears 
yet,  like  a  rich  Belgian  bell.  As  he  shut  the 
wire  off,  he  said  comfortably: 

"  Expect  me  home  in  three  or  four  days." 
He  forgot  to  tell  me  where  he  was  telephoning 
from. 

December  the  sixteenth. 

TO-DAY  the  doctor  called  again  from  he 
knows  where.  There  is  a  snow-storm,  and  the 
wires  are  pneumonic,  and  roar  wildly.  I  could 
scarcely  make  out  what  he  was  trying  to  say, 
and  we  had  to  give  the  message  up.  If  I  under- 
stood at  all  correctly,  Robert  said  a  singular  thing: 

"Pray  for  one  you  love" 

No  man  ever  asked  me  to  pray  for  anything 
before ;  I  suppose  it  never  occurred  to  any  per- 
son that  I  could  be  a  praying  woman. 

Poor  little  "  sumptuous  pagan  "  !  how  should 
she  be  ?     The  gods  die  with  the  joys,  I  think ; 
Christianity  must  be  the  religion  of  patience,  of 
denial ;  and  I  am  not  patient. 

Pray  for  one  I  love?  .  .  .  Suppose  I  tried"? 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     299 

Later. 

I  HAVE  tried.  I  do  not  know  how.  I  think  I 
shall  educate  my  daughter  in  what  George  Sand 
calls  "  la  science  de  Dieu  " ;  for  she  shall  not 
come  to  eight-and-twenty  years  with  an  unculti- 
vated spiritual  nature  —  not  so  ignorant  a  per- 
son as  I. 

An  hour  later. 

PRAY  for  one  I  love?  .  .  .  Then  for  whom 
shall  I  pray  *?  Pagan  beauty  stole  my  heart  and 
toyed  with  it,  and  cast  it  petulantly  down.  Pa- 
tient duty  gathered  the  bruised  thing,  and  cher- 
ished it,  and  guarded  it  gently,  from  itself  and 
from  its  guardian.  How  should  a  woman  pray  ? 
Prayer,  I  think,  must  be  as  honest  as  love,  or 
joy,  or  anguish ;  it  is  one  of  the  elemental  emo- 
tions ;  it  cannot  confuse  anything,  or  beguile 
God. 

Sudden  expressions  of  my  husband's  face 
start  out  upon  the  paper  where  I  write,  like  pic- 
tures which  my  pen  traces  against  its  will. 
Words  that  he  has  spoken — scenes  that  I  would 
perish  to  forget  —  leap  upon  me.  All  the  an- 
guish of  this  deserted  year  surges  pounding 
through  my  arteries ;  I  can  understand  how  peo- 
ple die  of  heartbreak  in  one  great,  significant 
moment  of  self-revelation. 

Cruelty  flung  me  into  the  hands  of  kindness ; 


300     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

neglect  left  me  to  devotion  ;  coldness  hurled  me 
at  the  feet  of  tenderness,  a  disregarded,  under- 
valued woman;  selfishness  tossed  me — where? 
Into  what"?  Upon  the  truest  heart,  against  the 
noblest  nature,  that  I  ever  knew. 

Suppose  I  knelt  and  tried  to  pray — I  could 
only  repeat  the  Morning  Lesson  or  some  of  the 
Collects.  Perhaps  if  I  wrote  a  prayer  it  would 
be  the  most  genuine  thing  possible — to  me.  I 
found  in  Father's  Greek  Testament  yesterday 
this,  copied  in  his  own  hand,  and  called  "  The 
Prayer  of  Fenelon": 

Lord,  take  my  heart,  for  I  cannot  give  it  to  Thee.  And 
when  Thou  hast  it,  keep  it,  for  I  would  not  take  it  from 
Thee.  And  save  me  in  spite  of  myself,  for  Christ's  sake. 
Amen. 

December  the  seventeenth. 

THOU  great  God  !  Invisible  !  Almighty !  I  am 
not  a  religious  woman,  and  I  do  not  know  how 
to  express  myself,  but  I  will  not  soil  my  soul  by 
one  uncandid  word.  Be  Thou  to  me  the  utter 
Truth.  Then  shall  my  heart  utter  it,  and  give 
Thee  back  Thyself. 

I  am  a  woman  unhappy  and  perplexed.  I 
have  not  even  the  excuse  of  a  great  temptation 
to  justify  what  I  feel  —  only  a  subtle  one,  like  a 
mist  that  blurs  my  vision. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     301 

Thou  God  !  I  do  not  care  so  much  —  for  any 
other  thing  —  except  to  do  what  is  right.  Teach 
me  where  Tightness  is !  I  am  willing  to  count 
its  price,  to  pay  its  cost.  I  am  willing  to  be 
very  lonely,  lonelier  than  I  need  to  be,  if  I  can 
be  sure  of  doing  right.  I  am  willing  to  give  up 
the  only  comfort  I  have,  if  I  ought  to  do  that. 
.  .  .  Hear  my  first  prayer,  O  God ! — Dana, 
Dana,  Dana  I  Wherever  in  this  wide  world  my 
poor  husband  is  —  I  pray  for  him  !  If  he  is  sick, 
or  sinful,  if  he  is  in  any  trouble,  if  he  has  for- 
gotten me,  though  he  should  come  back  and  be 
cruel  to  me  —  I  pray  for  him,  for  him  I 

December  the  eighteenth. 

THE  doctor  has  got  home.  I  think  he  arrived 
at  dusk,  but  it  was  late  before  he  came  over, 
nearly  ten  o'clock.  He  looked  fatigued  beyond 
description,  and  yet  he  had  a  radiance.  All  the 
room  seemed  to  shine  when  he  entered  it.  I 
had  that  old  feeling  that  he  stood  in  a  stream  of 
light,  and  it  was  as  if  I  crossed  the  current  when 
I  moved  to  take  his  outstretched  hand.  There 
was  a  solemn  elation  in  his  eyes. 

"You  have  had  a  good  rest!"  I  cried,  "a 
happy  journey ! " 

"  A  happy  journey,  yes."  Smiling,  he  studied 
me  as  if  my  too  candid  face  were  a  Chaldean 


302     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

seal.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  felt  uncom- 
fortable before  my  old  friend,  and  I  took  refuge 
in  the  best  of  all  civilized  disguises  —  elaborate 
frankness. 

*'  I  missed  you,  Doctor,  ridiculously.  I  think 
you  ought  either  never  to  go  away,  or  else  to 
stay  all  the  time.  I  have  yet  to  learn  to  do 
without  you,  Robert." 

"  All  that  will  take  care  of  itself,"  said  Robert, 
gently.  "  There  are  first  that  shall  be  last.  And 
I  am  glad  that  you  missed  me,  too.  It  harmed 
nobody,  and  it  touches  me." 

If  Robert's  face  had  frosted,  or  assumed  any 
of  the  masculine  defenses  which  a  commonplace 
man  throws  out  between  himself  and  a  woman 
whom  he  is  capable  of  misinterpreting,  I  think, 
dear  as  he  is  to  me,  I  could  have  spurned  him 
in  my  heart.  But  his  comfortable,  matter-of-fact 
words  restored  the  poise  of  my  own  nature; 
the  vertigo  steadied  instantly.  By  a  divination 
he  put  me  delicately  at  my  ease,  like  the  gentle- 
man he  is. 

We  talked  awhile  quietly.  The  radiance 
that  I  spoke  of  remained  translucent  on  his  face. 
He  said  he  would  come  in  to-morrow,  and  ran 
up  and  kissed  Marion  in  her  crib,  and  played 
with  Job  a  little,  and  then  he  went  away.  What 
was  that  curious  thing  he  said  ?  There  are  first 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     303 

that  shall  be  last?  .  .  .  Robert  is  usually  so 
direct;  he  is  never  given  to  conversational  sor- 
ceries. 

December  the  nineteenth. 

THE  doctor  came  in  this  noon.  He  asked  if  I 
could  spare  James,  who  is  needed  in  the  coach- 
house, and  suggested  the  objectionable  Peterkin 
as  a  substitute.  I  demurred. 

"  I  saw  Eliot  about  the  grounds  this  morning. 
If  he  is  at  liberty  now,  why  can't  I  have  Eliot  ? 
—  if  you  insist  on  anybody." 

"Eliot  is  on  night  duty,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"  I  thought  perhaps  Peterkin  —  but  never  mind. 
Keep  James,  if  you  prefer,  by  all  means." 

Now,  penitent,  I  protested.  For  Peterkin  I 
now  entreated.  Peterkin,  only  Peterkin,  could 
protect  my  imperiled  household  or  assuage  my 
troubled  spirit.  But  the  doctor  smiled  and 
shook  his  head.  He  did  not  ask  me  to  abjure 
my  folly  and  bolt  my  doors.  He  has  ceased  to 
fret  me  on  this  topic.  One  of  the  remarkable 
things  about  Robert  is  that  he  conforms  to  a 
weakness  as  generously  as  he  admires  a  strong 
point.  He  accepts  a  woman  just  as  she  is,  and 
if  she  does  a  foolish  thing,  he  takes  it  as  a  matter 
of  course,  like  a  symptom.  If  he  had  the  chance 
he  might  cure  it,  but  he  never  exasperates  her 
by  resenting  it.  I  know,  when  he  loved  me 


304     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

long  ago,  before  I  was  married,  I  used  to  feel 
that  he  loved  me  for  my  very  faults. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  how  much  happier 
and  safer  I  feel  now  that  the  doctor  has  come 
back.  I  have  been  listening  lately  at  night  for 
the  telephone — it  is  impossible  to  say  why.  But 
it  has  not  called  again.  I  dusted  all  Dana's 
music  to-day. 

December  the  twentieth;  noon. 

THERE  was  a  savage  storm  last  night  —  sleet  and 
snow  fighting.  James  dug  my  paths  before  he 
went  to  the  hospital,  and  came  back  after  a 
while,  plowing  his  way  over  with  Father's  little 
old  snow-plow  and  the  doctor's  white  horse. 
There  is  quite  a  clear  path  all  around  the  tree- 
house.  It  makes  me  feel  less  shut  in  and  cut 
off.  Mercibel,  at  the  office  window,  waved  her 
nurse's  apron  and  blew  a  kiss  to  me.  The  doctor 
will  hardly  come  over,  I  think.  I  understand 
there  are  some  pretty  sick  patients.  There 
seems  to  be  some  agitation  at  the  hospital.  The 
countenance  of  my  father's  house  has  a  tense 
expression,  as  if  it  concealed  drama  —  as  it  does, 
as  it  must.  All  the  tragedy  of  all  that  disabled 
and  disordered  life  crowds  crushing  upon  the 
superintendent.  How  seldom  this  occurs  to  me  ! 
I  am  engrossed  in  my  own  drama.  I  think  I 
must  be  yet  very  young. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE    305 

The  telephone  wires  are  furred  with  sleet  and 
sag  heavily,  but  still  hold  their  thin  lips  between 
myself  and  the  world ;  between  myself  and  the 
watchful,  patient,  unrewarded  kindness  which 
has  never  failed  me  anywhere. 

December  the  twenty-first. 
AN  extraordinary  thing  has  happened. 

The  storm  has  been  a  wild  caprice,  lulling 
and  rousing  without  any  visible  reason ;  but  by 
mid-afternoon  the  snow  ceased  sullenly.  There 
was  no  sun,  but  a  vicious  wind,  and  a  stinging 
powder  filled  the  air.  James  came  over  and 
cleared  out  all  my  paths  again,  and  brought  the 
doctor's  remembrances,  and  was  I  quite  com- 
fortable ?  or  did  I  need  anything  that  he  could 
do?  The  doctor  did  not  telephone.  Mercibel 
did  once  or  twice,  but  I  thought  her  absent- 
minded,  for  some  reason. 

After  dinner,  between  half-past  seven  and 
eight  o'clock,  the  ghost  of  the  Wilderness  Girl 
got  me,  for  I  have  stayed  indoors  too  long.  I 
put  myself  into  rubber  boots  and  waterproof, 
pulled  the  hood  over  my  head,  and  ran  out.  A 
young  moon  wandered  somewhere  in  a  waste  of 
clouds,  but  it  seemed  to  me  only  to  make  every- 
thing darker;  all  the  shadows  of  the  shrubbery 
crouched  like  creatures  about  to  spring,  and  the 


306     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

tree-house  stood  in  such  a  jungle  of  blackness 
that  I  was  afraid  of  it.  I  tramped  about  for  a 
while,  running  up  and  down  the  paths,  and 
crunching  the  snow,  as  children  do.  But  I  did 
not  stay  long;  I  could  not  have  told  why,  but 
I  was  definitely  afraid.  I  came  back  and  into 
the  house,  threw  off  my  waterproof,  but,  I  don't 
know  for  what  reason,  did  not  remove  my  rub- 
ber boots.  I  stood  in  the  hall,  by  the  register, 
warming  my  feet.  As  I  did  this,  I  thought  the 
handle  of  the  front  door  turned. 

"  It  is  the  doctor,"  I  said.  But  it  was  not  the 
doctor,  and  the  door  did  not  open.  I  started 
to  call  Job,  but  he  was  in  the  kitchen  with 
Luella.  At  this  moment  the  banshee  up  in  my 
room  began  to  wail,  and  made  such  a  noise  that 
I  called  up  to  Ellen  to  stifle  her  with  a  handker- 
chief. Ellen,  having  obeyed  me,  came  to  the 
balusters  over  my  head,  and  said  that  Marion 
would  not  go  to  sleep  without  Dombey,  and 
should  she  give  in  to  such  as  that"?  I  answered: 
"Oh,  she  may  have  Dombey;  I  '11  get  him 
and  toss  him  up  to  you,"  and  I  went  into  the 
library  for  the  doll.  The  shades  were  not  drawn 
—  Dana  never  liked  to  have  them.  When  I 
stooped  to  pick  up  Dombey,  I  saw  upon  the 
window-sill  the  fingers  of  a  man's  hand. 

I  stood  quite  still,  with  Dombey  in  my  arms, 


CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE     307 

and  looked  at  the  window.  The  hand  slid, 
finger  by  finger,  and  slipped  away.  It  reminded 
me  of  the  hand  I  saw  in  my  dream  of  the 
Uruguay  dungeon,  and  it  was  a  left  hand,  too; 
but  it  had  no  ring.  I  threw  on  my  waterproof 
unlatched  the  front  door,  and  opened  it  wide. 

"  At  last,"  I  thought,  "  we  have  the  burglar." 
It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  be  afraid.  Such  a 
sense  of  wrong  overtook  me,  the  rage  of  the 
home  against  its  violator,  that  I  cared  for  nothing 
but  to  defy  the  fellow.  I  understand  now,  per- 
fectly, how  small  women,  timid  ones,  have 
sprung  upon  tramps  and  thieves,  and  choked 
them  and  held  them  till  the  neighbors  came.  By 
this  time  Job  had  begun  to  growl  from  the 
kitchen,  and  Luella  had  let  him  out.  I  ran 
down  the  steps  and  out  into  the  snow,  and  Job  met 
me  at  the  corner  of  the  house.  The  dog  moved 
stealthily ;  he  did  not  bark. 

"Whoever  you  are,"  I  cried,  "make  your 
errand  known,  or  leave  my  house  !  " 

There  was  no  person  to  be  seen.  I  pushed 
on  toward  the  tree-house.  There,  cringing, 
blotted  into  the  jungle  of  shadows,  I  perceived, 
or  I  thought  I  did,  the  figure  of  a  man.  It  was 
a  pitiable  figure,  poor  and  outcast. 

"  Who  are  you,"  I  said  more  gently,  "  and 
what  do  you  want  ?  " 


308     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

There  was  no  reply,  and  I  stood,  uncertain 
what  to  do.  The  thin  young  moon  at  this 
moment  dived  into  a  sea  of  clouds,  and  when 
she  emerged  the  man  had  gone.  I  called  to 
Job,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  I  came 
back  into  the  house  and  shut  the  door.  From 
long  habit,  even  then  I  did  not  bolt  it.  I  sat 
down  by  the  register,  shivering  and  drying  my 
wet  skirts.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  telephone 
the  doctor  what  had  happened,  or,  if  it  did,  I 
thought  I  would  spare  him.  He  has  care  enough, 
and  I  knew  James  would  be  over  soon.  It  was 
by  then  perhaps  half-past  eight  o'clock.  Ellen 
came  down  and  asked  me  what  had  happened. 
"  Nothing,"  I  said.  "  Go  back  to  Marion." 
"  I  won't  do,  without  the  boy-doll,"  argued 
Ellen,  studying  me  furtively.  I  now  perceived 
that  the  old  servant  was  distinctly  scared,  and 
also  that  I  still  held  Dombey  affectionately 
clasped  to  my  heart.  I  gave  her  the  doll,  and 
she  went  up-stairs  reluctantly.  When  she  had 
gone,  I  slid  to  the  front  door  and  opened  it, 
and  looked  out  and  about.  No  person  was 
to  be  seen.  There  was  now  moon  enough  to 
show  the  tree-house  clearly ;  it  was  quite  empty. 
I  shut  the  door  and  came  back,  and  sat  down  by 
the  hall  register  again.  I  had  forgotten  about 
Job. 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     309 

I  was  sitting  there  when  the  door  opened 
in  earnest,  swiftly  though  softly,  and  the  doctor 
entered.  To  my  last  hour  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
forget  the  expression  of  his  face. 

"  You  have  had  a  fright !  "  he  began.  "  Tell 
me  all  about  it  —  quickly." 

I  now  saw  Eliot  behind  the  doctor,  and 
James,  and  Peterkin  —  a  good  match  between 
them  all  for  a  gang  of  housebreakers. 

"  How  in  the  world  did  you  know  ?  "  I  par- 
ried foolishly. 

Robert  interrupted  me  with  real  impatience. 
I  thought,  for  the  instant,  he  would  have  liked 
to  shake  me  —  but  not  hard. 

"  Speak,  can't  you  ?  "  he  cried.  "  There  is  no 
time  to  lose.  Did  he  annoy  you  ?  Did  you 
see  the  man  *?  " 

I  collected  myself,  and  told  him  all  there  was 
to  tell.  It  was  little  enough,  and  seemed  to  dis- 
appoint him.  The  two  nurses  had  by  this  time 
vanished,  directed,  I  thought,  by  a  single  up- 
ward motion  of  the  superintendent's  heavy  eyelids. 

"  What  do  you  say  you  said,"  demanded  the 
doctor,  "when  you  first  opened  the  door*?" 

"  I  said  :  '  Whoever  you  are,  make  your  errand 
known,  or  leave  my  house'  " 

The  doctor  turned  the  high  collar  of  his  fur- 
lined  coat,  half  concealing  his  averted  face. 


310     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  Go  up  to  bed,"  he  said.  "  Peterkin  will 
sleep  here  to-night.  I  have  need  of  James.  If 
you  are  disturbed  again,  call  me  instantly,  Marna. 
Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"Don't  be  cross  to  me,  Doctor,"  I  quavered 
childishly.  "  I  will  do  whatever  you  say." 

He  went,  and  Peterkin  came.  I  am  too  ex- 
cited to  sleep,  and  so  I  write.  Job  has  but  just 
come  in.  He  is  wet  through,  and  shivers  vio- 
lently. He  must  have  been  out  a  long  time. 

December  the  twenty-second. ' 

OUR  tramp  has  not  done  us  the  honor  again, 
and  nothing  whatever  has  happened.  In  fact, 
life  is  more  than  commonly  dull,  for  I  took  cold 
that  night  in  the  snow,  and  am  cherishing  a  sore 
throat  in  unexampled  obscurity ;  the  doctor  hav- 
ing gone  away.  So,  I  surmise,  has  Eliot.  So,  I 
think,  has  Peterkin.  James  appears  every  night 
as  before,  only  now  very  early,  by  six  o'clock. 
Mercibel  comes  over  and  stays  through  the  day — 
I  suppose  because  I  have  a  sore  throat;  at  all 
events,  those  seem  to  be  her  orders.  She  an- 
swers the  telephone,  which  rings  occasionally. 
Now  and  then  she  seems  to  have  messages  from 
the  doctor,  who  inquires  for  me,  with  his  remem- 
brances. He  does  not  ask  me  to  come  to  the 
telephone.  Mercibel  says  he  says  I  am  to  be 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     311 

very  careful  of  this  throat,  and  not  to  strain  my 
voice.  I  am  trying  to  finish  Marion's  Christmas 
presents — chiefly  am  I  dressing  a  new  wife  for 
Dombey.  I  have  got  her  a  doll's  house  from 
her  father,  for  I  could  not  have  her  think  he  had 
forgotten  to  send  her  anything.  I  am  very 
lonely.  I  can't  see  why  the  doctor  should  have 
to  go  away  so  soon  again.  Mercibel  says  it  is  a 
professional  errand  and  he  could  not  help  it.  I 
miss  him  cruelly  —  I  am  quite  demoralized  by 
missing  him ;  I  may  as  well  own  to  this  as  to 
experience  it. 

What  will  become  of  me  if  Robert  is  so  necessary 
to  me  as  this  ?  .  .  . 

A  woman  may  be  made  very  unhappy,  I  find, 
for  the  sake  of  a  man  whom  she  does  not  love, 
whom  she  must  not  love.  Friendship  takes 
hold  of  women  more  seriously  than  of  men,  I 
think.  Is  it  a  disorder  to  which  we  are  tempera- 
mentally more  subject? 

December  the  twenty-third. 

THE  doctor  has  come  home  again.  He  called 
at  once,  very  early  this  morning,  to  see  about  my 
throat.  I  was  startled  at  his  appearance ;  he 
must  have  had  a  hard  trip.  But  yet  he  has 
happy  eyes.  As  I  watched  them  I  felt  that 
mine  might  safely  say  anything,  for  it  was  as  if 


312     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

he  did  not  exactly  see  me.  He  talked  more 
than  usual.  He  spoke  of  Dana,  of  his  absence 
and  silence,  and  of  what  I  had  endured. 

"  You  have  behaved  like  a  queen  at  her  exe- 
cution," he  said.  He  talked  about  my  husband 
for  quite  a  while.  My  thoughts  were  of  him,  but 
his  were  of  Dana.  But  I  was  so  glad  he  had 
come  back  that  nothing  troubled  me.  Job  sat 
on  my  lap  and  listened  with  a  portentous  solem- 
nity to  our  conversation ;  there  are  times  when 
that  dog  seems  like  a  brownie.  Job  has  been 
restless  and  unhappy  these  last  few  days;  he 
sleeps  on  the  foot  of  my  bed,  and  starts  fre- 
quently, and  has  bad  dreams  and  little  York- 
shire nightmares  out  of  which  I  have  to  wake 
him  up  and  reassure  him. 

December  the  twenty-fourth;  afternoon. 
MARION  hit  the  Parthenon  frieze  behind  the 
library  sofa  a  hard  whack  with  Banny  Doodle, 
and  the  paper  broke  away ;  the  paste  had  dried, 
and  the  frieze  has  hung  loosely  for  a  long  time. 
I  went  up  to  fix  it,  and  I  saw  the  Landseer  dogs 
that  I  had  forgotten  about  —  David  and  Dora. 

Then  I  remembered  when  I  first  put  them  on 
the  bruise  in  the  calcimine,  and  how  Dana  made 
fun  of  me,  and  how  he  helped  me  to  put  the 
frieze  up.  I  thought  how  he  teased  Job  by 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     313 

patting  David  and  Dora,  and  how  Job  snarled 
with  jealousy  and  sprang  at  the  picture,  and 
how  Dana  laughed  out  —  nobody  ever  had  such 
a  laugh  as  Dana.  How  happy  was  I !  How 
dear  was  he !  And  we  did  love  each  other  — 
God  knows. 

"Pity  Mommer!"  cooed  Marion  behind  me. 

"Go  and  get  Job,"  I  commanded  wildly,  for 
I  could  not  have  the  child  behold  my  overthrow. 

Something  beat  about  me  like  a  whirlwind 
rising  from — the  woman's  God  knows  where. 
...  I  have  tried  to  forget,  I  have  tried  to  for- 
get!—  not  to  suffer,  not  to  feel,  to  divert  my 
soul,  to  supplant  Almighty  Love  by  something 
else;  and  I  thought  I  had  succeeded,  but  I  had 
climbed  a  ladder  which  rested  in  the  air  —  and 
now,  in  a  moment,  it  toppled  with  me.  And 
David  and  Dora  had  brought  it  down  .  .  .  that 
little  thing,  that  little  foolish  dear  home  thing, 
that  Dana  and  I  had  done,  and  laughed  about, 
together. 

"  Why  don't  you  do  as  I  bid  you  ? "  I  de- 
manded, crossly  enough,  of  Marion.  "  Why 
don't  you  go  for  Job  *?  " 

My  daughter  put  up  a  grieved  lip. 

"Job  came  his  own  self.  And  I  fink  I  will 
go  make  a  call  on  Ellen."  Holding  her  little 
head  haughtily,  my  baby  scornfully  left  me. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

Ashamed,  I  turned  to  follow  her,  and  hurried  a 
little,  and  so  stumbled  over  something  in  the 
hall  —  and  it  was  Dana's  old  blue  velveteen 
coat.  Job  was  curled  up  on  it,  fixed  and  watch- 
ful. How  he  had  found  it,  why  he  had  brought 
it,  only  Job  can  say.  It  was  plain  that  he  had 
meant  to  bring  the  coat  to  me,  and,  laboriously 
dragging  it,  had  wavered  in  his  purpose  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.  Perhaps  a  glimpse  of  David 
and  Dora  had  arrested  his  inner  motive;  one 
never  can  tell :  a  highly  organized  dog  is  very 
complex. 

Commending  Job  and  comforting  Marion,  I 
took  the  coat  and  came  up  with  it  into  Dana's 
room,  and  locked  the  doors;  and  I  thought  I 
would  hang  the  coat  up  first  —  but  oh,  the  touch 
of  it,  the  touch  of  it !  .  .  . 

At  first  I  only  laid  my  cheek  upon  it,  for  I 
dared  no  more.  But  remembrance  has  her 
Judgment  Day,  when  the  books  are  opened. 
And  the  illuminated  text  of  married  love  which 
I  have  sealed  with  seven  seals  stared  at  me  from 
silver  and  from  crimson  pages  —  and  there  was 
no  more  power  in  me  to  close  the  book. 

I  caught  my  husband's  coat  to  my  heart,  and 
clasped  it,  and  kissed  it,  and  then  I  kissed  it 
again  —  oh,  and  again,  till  the  tears  stopped  the 
kisses;  and  when  the  sobs  came,  I  felt  that  some- 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     315 

thing  finer  than  reason  was  saved  in  me.  I 
threw  myself  on  Dana's  bed,  and  sunk  my  face 
in  the  coat,  and  stroked  it. 

I  thought  of  everything  that  I  had  tried  to  forget, 
and  I  forgot  everything  that  I  had  been  remem- 
bering. I  got  down  from  the  bed,  and  knelt, 
with  my  face  in  the  coat,  and  lifted  my  hands, 
and  thought  I  would  try  to  pray  again;  but  all  I 
could  say  was  : 


For  we  did  love  each  other  —  and  I  am  his 
wife.  All  the  awful  power  of  the  marriage  tie 
closed  about  me,  —  its  relentlessness,  its  precious- 
ness,  —  not  to  be  escaped.  The  dead  joys  got 
out  of  their  graves  and  looked  upon  me.  I 
thought  of  all  that  faith  and  sacredness,  and  of 
the  honor  in  which  we  cherished  it.  I  thought 
how  I  had  barred  these  things  from  my  heart  be- 
cause it  was  broken  and  so  it  could  not  hold  them. 

Who  said:  "It  is  worth  trying  .  .  .  suffering 
.  .  .  to  save  a  married  love"?  That  must 
have  been  Robert.  I  got  up  from  my  knees 
and  walked  to  and  fro  across  my  husband's 
room.  I  went  to  the  window  and  drew  his 
curtains  and  looked  out  at  his  stars.  And,  by 
the  holy  name  of  the  happiest  hour  that  we  had 
ever  known,  I  charged  myself  with  a  vow,  for 
Dana's  sake. 


316     CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE 

As  soon  as  I  was  something  composed,  I  sent 
for  the  doctor  so  urgently  that  he  came  at  once. 
Marion  had  gone  to  bed,  and  the  library  was 
littered  with  her  Christmas  things.  I  was  tying 
up  Dombey's  second  wife  in  silver  paper  with  a 
crimson  ribbon. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  said  Robert,  directly.  He 
took  the  doll,  and  tied  the  package  neatly;  in  fact, 
he  saw  that  my  fingers  trembled  so  I  could  not  do  it. 

Abruptly  I  began  : 

"Doctor,  I  am  going  to  find  my  husband.  I 
shall  take  the  child  and  start." 

"  Where  are  you  going  *?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"When?" 

"  At  once  —  to-morrow,  I  think." 

"Why?" 

"  He  may  need  me  —  who  knows  ?  " 

*'  I,"  said  Robert,  gravely. 


I  pushed  the  second  wife  into  the  doll's  house, 
anyhow,  and  she  slid  out  into  the  doctor's  lap. 
He  picked  her  up,  and  put  her  carefully  some- 
where, before  he  spoke  again. 

"  Tired  of  trusting  me,  Mama  ?  " 

Then  I  said:  "I  must  act  for  myself.  I 
have  borne  all  I  can.  If  he  is  alive,  I  will  find 
him.  If  he  is  dead  —  '' 


CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE       317 

"  Would  you  be  willing,"  interrupted  Robert, 
gently,  "to  wait  a  little  —  perhaps  two  or  three 
days'?  I  can  advise  you  better  if  you  give  me 
a  little  time.  I  have  some  pretty  sick  patients 
just  now,"  he  added  wearily,  "  and  such  a  step 
would  be  very  important.  You  would  need 
advice." 

"  I  should  need  you^  I  grant  you  ! "  I  cried  out 
cruelly.  "  I  can't  even  love  my  own  husband 
without  your  help  —  I  have  come  to  that." 

"  Mama ! "  pleaded  Robert,  in  a  voice  that 
wrung  my  heart. 

I  took  one  look  at  his  face,  and  then  some- 
thing in  me  gave  way  suddenly,  and  I  slid  to 
the  hassock  on  the  floor  below  me,  and — what 
might  I  have  done?  I  cannot  tell.  I  do  not 
know.  Put  my  head  upon  his  knee,  like  the 
child  that  I  sometimes  seem  to  myself  to  have 
been  to  him,  and  so  sobbed  out  the  "Forgive 
me,  Robert!"  which  came  surging  to  my  lips'? 
I  do  not  know.  I  cannot  tell.  Instantly  he  had 
lifted  me  to  my  feet. 

"  You  are  tired  out,"  he  said.  "  Go  up  to  bed 
at  once.  Sleep  if  you  can.  Don't  try  to  talk  to 
me.  I  understand.  Child,  I  understand  you 
better  than  you  do  yourself.  I  know  ...  I 
know  how  you  love  your  husband ;  better  than 
any  man  of  us  —  is  —  apt  to  be  loved." 


318     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

"  I  will  see  you  to-morrow,"  he  added  in  his 
usual  manner.  "  We  will  talk  everything  over. 
Trust  me  till  then." 

"  I  will  trust  you  till  I  am  dead,  and  after,"  I 
answered  him.  We  shook  hands  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  At  the  door,  he  turned  and  re- 
garded me  mournfully  and  something  solemnly, 
I  thought  —  as  if  the  man  were  looking  his  last 
upon  some  dear  and  sacred  privilege. 

"If  I  can  keep  —  trustworthy  — "  he  said; 
and  so  he  shut  the  door. 

Later. 

I  HAPPENED  on  this,  to-day,  that  Stevenson  said 
of  himself:  "  I  came  about  like  a  well-handled 
ship.  There  stood  at  the  wheel  that  unknown 
steersman  whom  we  call  God." 

January  the  fifteenth. 

UNTIL  this  I  have  had  no  moments.  Now, 
while  my  patient  is  sleeping  naturally,  my  heart 
draws  its  first  breath.  It  will  rest  me  more  to 
write  than  to  sleep. 

I  see  that  my  record  broke  asunder  abruptly 
on  Christmas  eve,  and  with  the  doctor's  call. 

I  slept  that  night,  by  God's  good  grace,  though 
no  one  could  have  been  more  surprised  at  this 
fact  than  myself.  I  dreamed  that  Marion  and  I 
started  out  together  on  Christmas  day  to  find 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE      319 

her  father,  and  that  we  went  to  Uruguay,  and 
crossed  the  swamp  with  the  log  and  the  snake, 
and  Dana  was  in  the  dungeon  with  the  crosses, 
and  he  put  up  his  left  hand  with  the  wedding- 
ring  upon  it,  and  so  I  knew  him ;  and  I  tore 
away  the  bars,  for  they  were  old  and  rusty,  and 
set  him  free.  And  he  said  —  I  was  dreaming 
what  he  said  when  Marion  waked  me  by  slapping 
me  with  Dombey's  second  wife. 

The  day  went  wildly  to  me.  It  was  not  a 
pleasant  day,  but  snowed  a  little  and  blew  more. 
The  wind  was  savage,  and  the  sky  frowned. 
The  doctor  did  not  come  over,  though  Mercibel 
did.  Now  and  then  I  got  away  from  Marion's 
Christmas  litter,  and  went  up-stairs  and  put  things 
into  bags,  at  random.  I  think  my  idea  was  to 
start  as  soon  as  the  doctor  came  —  to  what  place, 
to  what  end,  I  knew  no  more  than  the  child. 
My  head  whirled.  I  kept  repeating : 

"  I  will  find  my  husband." 

In  the  afternoon  I  telephoned  the  doctor  im- 
patiently, but  he  was  not  in.  As  it  grew  to  be 
dusk,  everything  looked  differently  to  me,  and  I 
felt  suddenly  weakened  in  soul  and  body,  like  a 
person  spent  by  a  delirium,  and  I  thought 

"  I  can  never  find  him  without  Robert.  I 
must  wait  for  Robert." 

But  Robert  did  not  come  over.     Marion  and 


320     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

I  had  our  supper,  and  Luella  went  out;  but 
Ellen  stayed,  and  James  came  over;  Peterkin 
did  not,  so  I  was  alone  with  my  father's  old 
servants. 

It  still  snowed  fitfully,  not  steadily  nor  much. 
There  was  some  sleet,  and  it  rapped  on  the  win- 
dows like  little  knuckles.  The  banshee  did  not 
cry,  and,  except  for  the  sleet,  there  was  not  any 
sound.  Marion  had  gone  to  bed,  but  Job  was 
playing  with  his  rubber  chicken.  The  chicken 
had  a  gamboge  head,  and  Job  had  cut  its  throat 
already.  I  sat  dully  watching  Job  and  the 
chicken.  He  dropped  the  chicken  while  I  did 
this,  and  went  to  the  door.  I  said : 

"  Oh,  you  don't  want  to  go  out  again  so  soon, 
Job ;  it 's  snowing.  "  But  the  dog  insisted.  I  let 
him  out,  and  came  back  and  sat  down  again.  I 
picked  up  Dombey's  second  wife,  and  Dombey, 
and  Banny  Doodle,  and  put  them  all  in  the 
doll's  house,  arranging  them  childishly,  as  if  I 
had  been  a  little  girl  myself. 

"  We  are  all  dolls,"  I  thought,  "  and  fate  plays 
with  us."  I  added  Job's  chicken  to  the  collec- 
tion, stupidly. 

I  went  out  into  the  hall  and  stood  by  the 
register,  and  called  up  to  Ellen  to  see  if  Marion 
were  happy;  but  Ellen  had  shut  the  nursery 
door,  for  the  night  was  cold,  and  so  she  did  not 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     321 

hear  me.  I  was  quite  alone  when  Job  scratched 
on  the  front  door  to  be  let  in. 

I  opened  the  door  immediately,  but  the  dog 
did  not  come  in.  He  ran  off  again  into  the 
snow,  and  I  shut  the  door  again.  Presently  I 
heard  him  scratching  at  the  door  once  more,  and 
this  time  he  whined  impatiently.  Once  more  I 
opened  the  door,  and  spoke  to  him  rather  sharply: 

"  Don't  keep  me  waiting  here  !  Come  in,  if 
you  are  coming  at  all ! " 

But  Job  ran  down  the  steps  and  off.  I  thought 
of  our  tramp,  but  I  felt  no  fear  of  any  kind,  un- 
less that  some  one  should  steal  Job,  and  I  did 
not  shut  the  door.  I  stood  still  in  the  hall  and 
called  the  dog  more  gently : 

"  Come  right  in,  Dear.  Don't  stay  out  in  the 
storm  any  longer  !  " 

As  I  spoke,  the  dog  leaped  up  the  steps,  shout- 
ing wildly ;  ran  to  me  and  looked  back ;  sprang 
to  my  arms,  kissed  me,  and  ran  back.  With- 
out hesitation  I  followed  Job,  and  stepped  out 
into  the  light,  fresh  snow. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  a  man  leaned  against 
the  piazza  pillar,  heavily.  He  did  not  start 
when  he  saw  me;  and  Job  was  in  his  arms. 
The  man  regarded  me  steadily. 

"  In  God's  name,"  I  cried  out  upon  him,  "  who 
are  you  ?  " 


322      CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  Job  knows,  if  you  don't." 

I  did  not  answer,  for  I  did  not  dare.  I  felt 
that  the  wrong  word  would  pull  the  whirling 
world  crashing  on  my  head.  I  went  up  to  the 
man,  and  held  out  my  hand,  and  led  him  up  the 
steps,  and  the  light  smote  his  face,  and  it  was 
my  husband's  face. 

"  I  did  n't  know,"  he  said  timidly,  "  whether 
you  'd  want  me  back  or  not." 

Without  a  word,  I  led  him  into  the  house 
and  shut  the  door  behind  him.  I  don't  know 
why  I  did  it,  but  I  slid  the  key,  and  put  it  in 
my  pocket.  He  stood  still,  like  a  child  or  a 
sick  person,  just  where  I  left  him.  The  snow 
dripped  from  his  beard.  I  took  off  his  hat,  and 
then,  in  the  full  gas-light,  I  saw  his  face  .  .  .  the 
havoc  on  it :  shame,  disease,  despair,  and  des- 
olation —  oh,  desolation  worse,  by  all  the  agonies, 
than  mine ! 

"  I  was  a  darn  fool  to  leave  you,  Marna."  he 
said,  just  as  I  had  heard  him  say  it  in  my  dream. 
*'  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  thought  I  'd 
come  in  —  awhile  —  even  if  you  did  n't  want  to 
keep  me." 

"  —  What  *?  You  don't  say  very  much,  I  no- 
tice. Well,  I  don't  blame  you,  Marna." 

"  —  Don't  try,  Marna  —  if  it  comes  so  hard  as 
that.  Don't  stand  on  ceremony.  I  'd  rather 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     323 

you  did  n't  make  such  an  effort  to  —  be  glad  to 
see  a  fellow.  It  does  n't  matter  very  much.  I 
can  —  go  away  again." 

He  turned  his  shattered  face  and  tottered 
toward  the  door.  I  slid  between  him  and  it, 
and  stretched  out  my  hands. 

"  I  'm  pretty  —  wet,"  he  said  uncertainly. 

I  went  straight  up  to  him  and  clasped  him  to 
my  heart,  and  his  shaking  arms  closed  fast 
about  me. 

WHEN  I  lifted  my  face,  the  doctor  was  there,  and 
my  father's  old  servants.  Dana  did  not  speak  to 
any  of  them ;  he  looked  about  passively. 

"Get  off  his  wet  things,"  said  the  doctor;  and 
James  came  up  to  help  us.  It  did  not  occur  to 
me  till  afterward  to  wonder  how  Robert  got 
into  the  house,  for  I  had  the  front-door  key  in 
my  pocket.  Nothing  occurred  to  me.  Dana 
had  come  home. 

We  led  him  into  the  library  and  up  to  the 
fire,  and  the  doctor  rolled  up  the  Morris  chair 
for  him.  I  now  saw  for  the  first  time  that  my 
husband  was  a  very  sick  man.  He  had  a  singu- 
lar expression.  His  eyes  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  varnished.  He  looked  around  the  room, 
noticed  the  Christmas  clutter,  the  doll's  house 
and  the  dolls,  and  the  Parthenon  frieze  which 


324     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

he  had  helped  me  to  paste  over  David  and 
Dora. 

"  It  all  looks  so  —  natural,"  he  said  pitifully. 
All  this  while  he  kept  hold  of  my  hand.  Job 
came  up  quietly,  and  got  into  his  lap.  We 
were  standing  just  so  —  the  doctor  on  the  other 
side  of  him,  and  Ellen  and  James  behind  —  when 
Marion  melted  into  the  room.  Her  little  bare 
feet  had  made  no  sound  upon  the  padded  stairs, 
and  she  startled  us  all.  Job  jumped  down  from 
Dana's  lap,  and  went  and  brought  his  chicken  to 
his  master.  No  one  spoke.  Her  father  turned  his 
head  slowly,  and  by  the  time  that  he  saw  the  little 
girl,  she  was  quite  near  him.  For  an  instant  I 
think  she  was  frightened ;  she  backed  off,  wide- 
eyed  and  wondering,  but  advanced  again,  and 
leaned  up,  in  her  little  white  night-gown,  against 
his  knee. 

"  Why,  she  remembers  me ! "  he  whispered. 
His  face  worked;  he  hid  it  on  the  child's  soft 
head  and  wept  aloud. 

"  Pity  Popper !  "  said  Marion,  distinctly.  She 
put  up  both  her  hands  and  stroked  his  hollow 
cheeks. 

WE  got  him  up-stairs  as  soon  as  we  could,  the 
doctor  and  I  —  into  his  own  room  and  his  own 
bed.  Ellen  had  warmed  the  sheets,  and  every- 


"'PITY  POPPER!'   SAID  MARION,   DISTINCTLY. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE    325 

thing  was  ready,  as  if  he  had  been  expected,  or 
as  if  he  had  never  been  away.  I  managed  to 
get  in  and  light  his  candle,  and  fix  all  his  little 
things  as  he  used  to  like  them.  He  looked  at 
everything  pathetically,  but  he  did  not  speak. 
He  had  grown  strangely  very  weak,  I  thought, 
and  panted  for  his  breath.  His  forehead  went  a 
sudden  deadly  color  which  terrified  me,  and  I 
ran  and  sat  on  the  bed  beside  him,  and  took 
him  in  my  arms.  His  sunken  face  fell  upon  my 
breast. 

"You  're  a  dear  old  girl!"  he  said. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  doctor,  unexpectedly,  "  that 
you  had  better  leave  him  to  us  for  a  while." 

And  suddenly  I  saw  that  Eliot  was  in  the 
room.  But  I  did  not  move. 

"Go  down-stairs,  Mrs.  Herwin,"  commanded 
Dr.  Hazelton,  peremptorily. 

Wondering  and  pondering,  I  obeyed. 

When  they  called  me  back,  Dana  was  asleep. 
It  was  a  dense  sleep,  and  he  did  not  rouse  as  I 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  beside  him. 
His  gleaming  pallor  was  replaced  by  a  stagnant, 
crimson  color  that  I  liked  no  better. 

"  Has  he  a  fever  ?  "  I  whispered. 

"No." 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  tell  me  what  ails 
him  ?  " 


326     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  Certainly  I  am." 

"What  is  it,  Doctor?" 

" Morphine"  He  drew  up  Dana's  sleeve  and 
showed  me  his  poor  marred  arm.  Dana  did 
not  stir  as  the  doctor  gently  replaced  the  sleeve. 


VIII 

COME  down-stairs,"  said  Robert,  "  and  I  will 
tell  you  everything." 

I  looked  at  Dana  and  shook  my  head. 

"  He  will  not  miss  you,"  urged  the  doctor. 
"  He  will  know  nothing  more  till  it  is  time  for 
the  next  dose." 

I  asked  when  that  would  be. 

"At  three  in  the  morning.  Eliot  will  attend 
to  that.  Leave  him  with  Eliot;  trust  him  en- 
tirely to  Eliot.  He  has  had  the  care  of  him  for 
— some  time." 

I  don't  think  I  uttered  a  word ;  I  scarcely  ex- 
perienced surprise.  It  seemed,  now,  that  any- 
thing might  happen,  or  might  have  happened. 
I  followed  Robert  down-stairs  in  silence,  and  he 
shut  the  library  door. 

He  bade  me  lie  down  upon  the  lounge,  "  be- 
cause I  needed  all  my  strength  for  what  was 
before  me  now,"  and  he  covered  me  carefully 
with  the  afghan,  and  drew  up  the  Morris  chair 
opposite  me,  and  began  at  once.  It  was  still 

327 


328     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

early,  scarcely  nine  o'clock,  and  we  talked  two 
hours  —  evading  nothing,  facing  everything. 

He  began  by  telling  me  how  he  had  at  times 
suspected,  before  Dana  went  to  Uruguay,  that  he 
was  forming  the  morphine  habit. 

"  But  he  was  not  my  patient ;  I  never  had  his 
confidence.  The  early  symptoms  are  elusive;  I 
was  never  sure.  I  could  scarcely  create  a  theory; 
I  might  have  wronged  him  by  the  suspicion ;  I 
decided  to  keep  it  to  myself." 

"  So  you  sent  him  atropine  3X  ! "  I  cried.  Curi- 
ously, my  mind  fastened  itself  upon  this  unim- 
portant detail.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the 
important  ones  would  come  faster  than  I  could 
bear  them.  As  they  did  —  as  they  did ! 

I  tried  to  listen  as  quietly  as  he  tried  to  speak; 
but  it  was  not  easy  for  either;  and  Robert,  I 
could  see,  was  greatly  worn  with  all  that  he  had 
endured  for  Dana's  sake,  and  mine.  My  mind 
ran  ahead  of  his,  as  a  woman's  mind  does  with 
a  man's,  and  I  would  take  loops  in  the  mystery 
which  he  was  unraveling  slowly,  and  give  the 
snarl  a  tear.  I  would  say : 

"Yes,  yes!  So  those  telephone  messages 
were  from  him  ?  I  see,  —  I  see. 

"  And  you  traced  him  by  them  *?  It  was  you 
who  found  Dana !  It  was  you  who  brought  my 
husband  back  to  me." 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     329 

Then,  when  I  had  collected  myself  a  little: 
"And  you  have  done  it  all  in  these  two  weeks!" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  I 
have  had  Mr.  Herwin's  movements  watched 
ever  since  he  put  himself  under  the  suspicion  of 
having  deserted  you.  He  was  met  by  my  agents 
when  the  Marion  landed  .  .  .  Did  you  suppose  I 
was  sitting  with  my  hands  folded  all  that  while  ? 
while  your  husband,  jjwr  husband  —  There  was 
nobody  else  to  do  it  for  you.  Your  father 
would  have  .  .  .  We  lost  him  between  San  Fran- 
cisco and  St.  Paul ;  and  that  was  the  hardest  part 
of  it." 

"Do  you  mean — "  I  began.  "Do  you 
mean  —  " 

"  Never  mind  what  I  mean." 

"  Your  nurses  ?     Eliot  ?     Peterkin  ?  " 

"Eliot  and  Peterkin  and —  It  does  not 
signify  who,  does  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  interrupt  you  again,  Robert,"  I 
said  humbly.  "  Tell  it  in  your  own  way." 

So  he  told  it  all,  and  in  his  own  way;  simple, 
direct,  modest,  manly — Robert's  way.  He  told 
me  how  he  had  happened  to  know  that  there 
was  a  sanatorium  in  that  little  Western  town 
with  the  queer  name,  Healer;  and  how  he  had 
telephoned  by  the  longest  long-distance  wires 
in  the  land  half  across  the  continent,  and 


330     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

so  traced  Dana  —  a  poor,  wretched,  outcast 
patient  —  in  that  place ;  how  he  had  despatched 
Eliot,  and  how  he  himself  had  followed;  how 
Dana  had  left  the  sanatorium  when  Eliot  reached 
it,  and  wandered  back  to  Omaha  and  God  knows 
where ;  how  they  pursued  and  how  he  eluded ; 
how  they  tracked  him  down  at  Chicago  —  my 
poor  Dana  —  in  an  opium  den,  and  brought  him 
with  them ;  for  he  came  willingly  with  Robert, 
making  only  one  condition. 

"  Take  me  to  your  hospital  and  treat  me  till 
I  am  fit  to  see  my  wife,"  entreated  Dana.  "  I 
will  not  go  to  her  as  I  am." 

"  So  I  did  as  he  asked,"  said  Robert.  "  He 
would  not  come  on  any  other  terms.  My  way 
would  have  been  to  bring  him  straight  to  you  — 
there  were  so  many  risks.  As  it  was,  .  .  .  when 
he  escaped  ...  I  should  never  have  forgiven  my- 
self— nor  you  me.  I  can't  talk  of  it! — not  yet." 

Nor  can  I  think  of  it  —  not  yet. 

For  my  Dana  was  the  only  patient  who  ever 
escaped  the  superintendent's  guards;  and  when  I 
think  how  he  had  come  straight  to  me,  and 
wandered  about  his  own  home  that  night,  and 
did  not  dare  come  in  —  and  how  I  saw  him  in 
the  tree-house,  outcast  and  despairing,  and  did 
not  know  —  and  he  might  never  have  come 
back  —  and  yet  I  did  not  know  —  and  how  I 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     331 

had  hardened  my  heart  against  him  all  that 
while,  for  I  did  not  know — 

My  poor  boy  had  fled  to  get  the  liberty  of  his 
slavery.  And  Robert  tracked  him  down  again ; 
he  was  buying  morphine  in  a  poor  place,  some 
drug-store  at  the  north  end  of  the  city.  There,  on 
the  evening  of  the  second  day,  Dana  felt  a  hand 
upon  his  arm.  And  he  did  not  look  up,  but 
said:  "  That  you,  Hazelton  ?  Well,  I  'm  glad 
of  it."  And  again  he  came  with  the  doctor 
willingly,  but  this  time  without  conditions,  for 
he  felt  himself  a  beaten  man.  So  he  gave  him- 
self into  Robert's  hands,  reserving  nothing;  and 
Robert  brought  him  to  the  hospital,  and  treated 
him  and  battled  with  him  and  conquered  him 
for  those  two  days.  And  on  Christmas  evening 
suddenly  they  gave  Dana  his  liberty,  to  see  what 
use  he  would  make  of  it;  but  it  was  a  trap,  for 
he  had  no  liberty,  all  the  exits  of  the  hospital 
and  the  grounds  being  guarded,  and  the  super- 
intendent shadowing  his  every  step. 

And  my  poor  boy  came  straight  to  me;  but  he 
was  afraid  to  make  himself  known,  so  he  loitered 
in  the  snow,  uncertain  and  ashamed,  till  Job 
went  out  and  found  him. 

WHEN  we  had  touched  upon  these  things,  giving 
nervous  question  and  answer,  talking  rapidly 


332     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

and  concisely,  like  people  who  sketch  but  the 
table  of  contents  of  a  long,  unfinished  volume, 
the  doctor  rose  abruptly  and  went  up  to  see 
Dana.  I  begged  leave  to  go,  but  he  objected, 
and  I  yielded  —  I  found  that  I  must.  I  remem- 
bered what  I  had  said  to  him  in  my  foolish 
anger :  "  I  can't  even  love  my  own  husband  with- 
out your  help,  it  seems;  I  have  come  to  that." 
Now  I  could  not  even  see  my  husband  without 
his  permission;  it  had  come  to  that.  Robert 
came  down  again,  in  a  few  minutes,  with  shining 
eyes. 

"He  is  doing  remarkably  well,"  he  said.  "But 
we  had  better  finish  talking  while  we  can.  I 
have  important  things  to  say  to  you,  Marna. 
.  .  .  Are  you  comfortable  *?  Resting  *?  Be  quiet. 
Do  not  agitate  yourself.  You  are  going  to  need 
all  your  strength." 

"  Before  you  begin,"  I  said,  "  tell  me  this : 
what  has  become  of  my  husband's  wedding- 
ring"?  It  is  gone." 

"  I  don't  think  you  will  be  any  happier  to 
know." 

"  Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Was  it  —  was  it  —  " 

"  Pawned  in  Chicago  in  that  place  where  we 
found  him." 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     333 

"  This  is  the  worst  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  I  know,  it  is  the  worst." 

"Very  well,  Robert.  There  was  no  —  one 
else  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  belief  that  there  has  been  no  one 
else.  The  perils  of  his  condition  are  not  that 
way,  and  I  have  made  —  some  inquiries." 

"  Thank  you,  Robert,"  I  said  humbly,  as  if  it 
were  his  doing.  "  Now  I  will  listen  to  you." 

Then  he  began  to  talk  to  me  very  gravely, 
very  kindly,  with  the  terrible  frankness  of  the 
physician,  and  the  merciful  gentleness  of  my  old 
friend.  He  spoke  in  short  sentences,  something 
like  these : 

"  I  have  brought  your  husband  back  to  you, 
but  I  have  not  saved  him.  I  do  not  even  know 
that  I  can.  That  depends  as  much  on  you  as 
on  me,  and  more  on  the  patient  than  on  either 
of  us.  In  this  case  he  has  taken  the  drug  hypo- 
dermically,  the  most  difficult  form  of  the  habit 
to  cure,  as  it  is  the  easiest  and  subtlest  to  create. 
There  are  several  ways  of  treating  the  morphine 
habit.  A  man  may  have  the  drug  taken  away 
from  him  abruptly;  he  may  recover,  and  he 
may  not.  He  may  be  put  upon  substitute  ano- 
dynes ;  they  may  serve,  and  they  may  fail.  He 
may  be  treated  by  a  process  of  gradual  reduction, 
by  lessening  the  drug  as  fast  as  the  diminution 


334     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

can  be  borne;  he  may  be  rehabilitated  by  this 
process,  or  he  may  not.  I  shall  adopt  this  last 
method  in  treating  Mr.  Herwin.  If  I  were  a 
stranger  to  him,  I  might  not,  necessarily,  do  so. 
Since  I  know  him,  I  select  it  as  being,  in  my 
opinion,  the  only  method  for  him.  It  is  the 
slowest,  but  the  safest.  It  will  mean  a  great  deal 
that  you  do  not  understand,  Marna.  The  ex- 
periment will  probably  last  a  year,  even  if  it  is 
successful.  He  must  suffer,  and  so  will  you. 
He  must  be  guarded  like  a  perishing  soul — and 
so  interpreted.  He  must  be  cherished  and 
loved  —  above  all,  he  must  be  borne  with  per- 
fectly; he  must  be  loved  perfectly.  It  will  not 
do  to  offer  him  any  half  measure — not  to  feel  to 
him  doubtfully,  or  critically,  or  with  reservations. 
You  will  need  all  the  patience,  all  the  purpose, 
of  your  nature.  You  will  need  —  I  was  going 
to  say  that  you  will  need  the  infinite  qualities. 
Forgive  everything.  Forget  all  you  can.  Bear 
anything.  Trust.  Hope.  Endure.  Something 
depends  on  me,  but  everything  on  you.  Be- 
tween us  we  may  save  him.  I  can  promise  you 
nothing,  but  I  will  do  my  best;  and  if  I  fail,  you 
will  forgive  me,  won't  you,  Marna?  .  .  . 

"Obey  me  without  question,  if  you  expect  him 
to  stand  any  chance  at  all.  Follow  every  order. 
Raise  no  querulous  doubts.  Work  with  me — as 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     335 

if  we  were  one  being — for  Dana's  sake.  I  shall 
regulate  every  detail  of  your  life  and  his  —  tell 
you  when  to  devote  yourself  to  him,  when  to 
leave  him  to  nurses,  how  to  do  this,  when  not 
to  do  that.  I  shall  seem  a  tyrant  to  you,  often 
mysterious,  sometimes  cold.  But  there  is  no 
other  chance.  Do  you  think  you  can  trust 
me?" 

Then  I  said :  "  If  I  cannot,  if  I  do  not,  I 
cannot  trust  the  God  in  heaven  above  us, 
Robert." 

"  There  is  one  other  thing,"  said  Robert,  with- 
out smiling.  "  I  am  going  to  speak  out  to  you, 
soul  to  soul.  Too  much  is  at  stake  for  any  pal- 
try reservations  —  and  I  can  consider  nothing 
but  the  salvation  of  my  patient.  I  can't  stand 
on  anything  —  not  even  on  wounding  you, 
Marna  —  if  I  must.  I  think  you  will  under- 
stand me ;  but  if  you  don't,  I  cannot  help  that. 
I  must  speak  and  run  my  risk." 

He  rose  and  paced  the  library,  showing  his 
first  sign  of  disturbance  in  all  that  tense,  tre- 
mendous evening. 

"Speak,  Robert,"  I  said;  "  I  am  not  dull." 

He  stopped  and  looked  down  upon  me  with 
the  most  solemn  and  the  most  beautiful  spirit 
that  I  ever  saw  imprisoned  in  the  eyes  of  any 
man. 


336     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

"  Marna,"  he  said,  "  to  save  your  husband  you 
must  love  him  without  any  qualifications.  You 
must  love  him  altogether.  You  must  serve  him 
altogether.  Nothing  must  come  between  your- 
self and  him  —  not  even  the  shadow  of  that 
which  never  has  been  and  can  never  be  —  no 
other  feeling,  no  other  thought.  Not  even  a 
friendship  must  divert  your  interest  in  Dana's 
cure — no,  not  even  ours.  You  will  think  of 
it — and  express  it — as  little  as  possible,  Marna. 
It  is  the  only  way.  And  if  I  do  not  .  .  .  express 
it,  you  will  not  allow  yourself  to  believe  that  I 
...  do  not  think  of  it.  You  said  you  would 
trust  me,  you  know.  And  I  shall  be  always 
here.  We  must  fight  this  fight  together  —  yet 
apart  —  sacredly."  .  .  .  His  voice  broke.  He 
turned  abruptly,  went  up-stairs  to  his  patient, 
and  so  left  me. 

I  slipped  to  my  knees  and  hid  my  face  in  my 
hands.  I  can  never  say  again  that  I  do  not 
know  what  it  is  to  pray. 

January  the  thirtieth. 

WE  are  living  so  intensely  that  I  wonder  I  ever 
thought  I  knew  what  it  was  to  live  before. 
How  small  are  the  simple  joys  and  sorrows 
beside  the  great  dramas  where  soul  and  body 
are  intervolved  —  the  tremendous  pathological 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     337 

secrets  upon  which  a  human  home  may  lock  its 
doors !  There  the  physician  stands  high  priest, 
and  sacred.  There  a  wife  finds  herself  perhaps 
for  the  first  time  in  her  married  life  at  peace 
with  her  wifehood;  she  comes  to  her  valuation; 
all  the  tenderness  of  her  nature  is  employed,  all 
that  which  had  not  been  cherished,  that  which 
she  had  come  to  count  as  superfluous  and  wasted. 
It  is  impossible  for  me  to  say  how  happy  I  am 
to  find  myself  so  necessary  to  Dana.  My  poor 
boy  is  gaining  upon  himself  day  by  day,  each 
one  bringing  a  little  advance  that  we  can  see 
and  he  can  feel.  I  heard  my  father  say  once, 
when  he  was  recovering  from  some  illness : 

"  The  happiest  people  in  this  world  are  the 
convalescents." 

There  are  times  when  I  think  the  happiest 
man  I  ever  saw  is  Dana.  There  are  others  when 
the  blackness  of  the  spaces  before  God  said 
"  Let  there  be  light "  seems  to  envelope  him ; 
and  darkness  which  can  be  felt  rolls  between  his 
soul  and  mine.  But  when  this  happens  I  have 
learned  to  say :  "  This,  too,  will  pass." 

There  are  days  when  Eliot  is  not  suffered  to 
leave  his  patient  for  the  lifting  of  an  eyelash. 
There  are  nights  when  the  house  is  guarded,  and 
when  James  or  Peterkin  sleeps  in  the  library. 
There  are  others  when  the  doctor  himself  stays 


338     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

with  us  from  dark  to  dawn ;  but  these  are  rare, 
and  are  becoming  rarer.  Not  once  yet  has  Dana 
fled  from  us,  or  obtained  it  for  himself  from  any 
source.  There  is  everything  in  preserving  the 
patient's  self-respect  and  his  reputation,  Robert 
says.  This  he  has  most  skilfully  succeeded  in 
doing.  Such  tact,  such  gentleness  and  firmness 
— but  I  cannot  write  of  it. 

It  is  understood  that  Dana  has  come  home 
from  Uruguay  with  some  malarial  condition  due 
to  the  climate.  We  are  often  seen  walking  or 
driving  together.  From  this  circumstance  the 
neighborhood  seems  to  derive  a  kind  of  reflected 
joy.  We  are  so  happy  that  I  find  no  time  to 
write  of  anything. 

To-day  Dana  asked  a  great  privilege — that 
Eliot  should  go  out  of  the  house,  and  that  I 
should  spend  the  whole  day  with  him.  The  doc- 
tor consented  without  hesitation.  There  is  some- 
thing, he  says,  in  trusting  a  patient.  Dana  and 
I  took  a  long  walk  in  the  morning ;  in  the  after- 
noon Robert  sent  over  his  horses,  and  we  had  a 
sleigh-ride,  and  Marion  went  with  us.  Between- 
whiles  my  dear  boy  asked  me  to  sit  by  him,  to 
read  to  him,  and  once  to  brush  his  hair  as  I  used 
to  do.  When  he  slept  he  held  my  hand,  and  I 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  cramped  and  uncom- 
fortable, and  well  content.  When  he  woke  he  said : 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     339 

"  You  're  a  dear,  sweet  girl ! " 

Often  he  calls  me  pathetically : 

"  Marna,  can  you  spare  time  to  stay  with  me 
a  little  ?  It  seems  to  me  you  have  been  gone  a 
great  while.  I  miss  you,  Marna."  Or  perhaps 
it  is :  "  Eliot,  where  is  my  wife  *?  I  want  my 
wife."  Or,  "  Marion,  run  and  call  your  mother. 
I  want  your  mother.  Ask  her  to  come  and 
bring  her  sewing  in  here.  I  want  her  to  sit 
where  I  can  see  her." 

So  Marion  runs,  and,  being  overcome  with 
the  importance  of  her  mission,  tumbles  upon 
her  words,  and  gets  no  further  than : 

"  Pity  Popper  !     Pity  Popper  !  " 

"  Marion,  Marion !  "  I  say,  "  I  do  pity  Pop- 
per with  all  my  heart."  And  I  hurry  to  him, 
and  he  turns  his  poor  face  with  the  havoc  on  it, 
and  lifts  his  wasted  hand,  and  draws  my  cheek 
to  his.  Then  I  see  that  he  is  sore  beset,  and 
I  challenge  my  love  that  it  may  be  strength  to 
him,  and  all  my  strength  that  it  may  be  love  for 
him.  The  tenderness  that  he  used  to  disregard 
I  can  pour  upon  him,  as  Radha  did  on  Krishna, 
"  give  to  him  in  fullest  measure  " —  now.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  loving  him  too  much — now.  I  am 
not  ashamed  to  show  him  how  I  feel  to  him  — 
now.  If  I  touch  him,  if  I  kiss  him,  he  cherishes 
me  —  now.  He  cannot  live  without  this  wine. 


340     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

February  the  twelfth. 

DANA  is  beginning  to  refer  sometimes  to  things 
that  happened  while  he  was  away.  Until  now 
he  has  scarcely  alluded  to  the  abyss  which  he 
thrust  between  us.  Last  night  he  said  : 

"  Oh,  I  was  so  homesick,  Marna  !  But  I  was 
ashamed  to  come  back.  Nobody  knows  how 
a  man  feels  ...  so  many  thousand  miles 
away  .  .  .  and  sick.  Oh,  it  was  such  a 
blanked  country ! " 

The  other  day  he  said : 

"  The  nights  were  the  worst.  I  could  not  get 
any  sleep  without  it.  One  night  I  said  —  two 
nights  I  said :  '  If  I  die  for  it,  1  will  not  increase 
the  dose  to-night.'  And  it  got  to  be  two 
o'clock,  and  those  sinking-turns  came  on,  and  I 
thought  it  was  all  up  with  me.  Then  I  called 
you.  I  cried  out  very  loud :  '  Marna !  Marna  ! ' 
Upon  my  word,  dear  girl,  I  believe  I  thought 
you  'd  hear  me." 

Then  I  said  : 

"  I  did  hear,  Dana."  For  I  remembered  the 
nights  when  I  heard  his  voice  quite  plainly, 
and  it  was  just  two  o'clock,  and  he  called : 
"  Marna ! " 

He  has  never  spoken  about  his  wedding- 
ring;  nor  have  I.  The  little  gold  Madonna 
still  hangs  upon  his  watch-guard,  though  his 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE    341 

watch  is  gone.  What  has  she  witnessed*? 
She  keeps  her  counsel  well. 

February  the  twentieth. 

I  WAS  looking  over  some  of  Dana's  things  to- 
day, for  we  have  been  so  absorbed  with  our 
patient,  and  so  busy  with  downright  nursing, 
that,  really,  I  have  never  straightened  anything 
out  properly  since  he  came  back.  The  doctor 
had  taken  him  out  driving  (with  Marion),  and  I 
had  an  hour  altogether  to  myself.  In  one  of 
his  pockets  I  found  my  photograph  —  the  old 
one  in  the  May-flower  dress.  It  was  in  a  leather 
case  that  folded  over,  and  it  was  very  much 
worn.  He  seems  to  have  lost  Marion's,  but 
this  —  the  tears  smarted  to  my  eyes  when  I  saw 
how  often  he  must  have  handled  my  picture  — 
my  poor  boy ! 

Afterward  I  was  dusting  out  his  traveling 
dressing-case,  and  mending  it,  for  the  lining  had 
broken  away,  and  under  the  lining,  carefully 
pinned  in  so  that  it  should  not  slip,  I  found  the 
leaf  of  the  woodbine  that  I  ran  and  picked  for 
him  from  the  tree-house  on  that  morning  — 
that  last  one,  when  he  sailed,  when  the  woman 
with  the  hand-organ  sang,  "  Keep  me  from  sink- 
ing down  !  "  The  ruby-red  leaf  has  faded  to  a 
dull  color,  and  is  quite  frail  and  brittle.  I  won- 


342     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

der  that  it  has  lasted  at  all.  I  kissed  the  leaf, 
for  I  thought  perhaps  he  might  have  kissed  it 
if  he  cared  enough  to  keep  it.  At  first  I  thought 
I  would  ask  him.  But  I  have  concluded  that  a 
wife  is  wiser  (consequently  happier)  not  to  put 
emotional  catechisms  to  her  husband.  Few  men 
take  kindly  to  this  feminine  habit,  even  well 
ones;  and  a  sick  man  resents  it.  And  a  few 
drops  of  resentment  will  extinguish  a  forest  fire 
of  tenderness.  The  doctor  said  to  me  one  day 
when  Dana  first  came  home : 

"  Take  as  much  for  granted  as  possible.  As- 
sume all  you  can." 

I  have  no  time  in  these  days  to  think  much 
—  not  too  much  —  about  the  doctor ;  but  once  in 
a  while  I  wonder  how  he  has  become  a  master 
of  the  magicians:  how  he  should  be  expert  in 
the  occult  art  of  married  life — this  lonely  man. 
I  suppose  it  may  be  partly  because  he  belongs 
to  one  of  the  confessional  professions. 

March  the  first 

TO-DAY  there  has  been  a  blasting  storm.  We 
have  sat  within  a  white  whirlwind,  as  if  we  were 
on  the  outside  of  a  blind  planet,  spinning  through 
frozen  ether  on  a  mysterious  errand,  directed  by 
the  moving  finger  of  the  unseen  God.  So, 
I  think,  a  human  love  whirls  blindly  before 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     343 

its  fate,  driven  by  the  Power  not  itself,  through 
fire,  through  frost,  through  midnight,  through 
dawn ;  and  the  heart  rides  upon  it,  like  organ- 
ized life  upon  the  globe,  fixed  there  without 
consent  or  power  to  rebel,  whirling  on  anyhow, 
anywhere,  gladly  or  madly,  yet,  on  the  whole, 
enjoying  the  ride ! 

Though  I  go  along  trembling,  like  a  leaf  driven  by  a 
strong  wind,  have  mercy,  Almighty,  have  mercy! 

That  verse  from  the  pagan  scriptures  which 
Father  used  to  like  comes  to  me  differently  lately. 
I  should  put  it  like  this : 

Though  I  am  a  leaf  driven  by  a  strong  wind,  I  bless  Thee, 
Almighty,  I  bless  Thee! 

To-day  I  am  quivering  between  happiness  and 
pain,  diving  from  the  skies  to  the  sod  and  up 
again  —  for  Dana  has  touched  the  piano ;  it  is 
the  first  time. 

We  have  had  a  hard  day  with  him,  for  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  go  out,  and  Eliot  is  off  duty 
on  an  experiment  —  Dana  pleaded  so.  The  doc- 
tor waded  over  in  the  blizzard  to  see  him  early 
this  morning;  no  horse  could  live  in  the  drifts. 
Robert  sat  with  his  patient  a  long  time,  and 
left  me  with  the  day's  orders,  and  would  come 
again. 


344     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"Give  up  everything  else,"  he  said.  "De- 
vote yourself  utterly.  Days  like  this  are  traps. 
Watch  him,  but  do  not  seem  to.  Repeat  the 
dose,  but  not  till  four  o'clock.  Lock  everything 
carefully.  Run  no  chances." 

Dana  has  been  very  restless  all  day.  At  two 
he  asked  me  timidly  "  if  it  were  not  time."  At 
three  he  asked  again.  At  half-past  three  rTe 
grew  suddenly  very  faint  and  went  a  deathly 
color,  and  I  telephoned,  and  Robert  came,  strug- 
gling and  panting,  through  the  snow.  When  he 
came,  he  sat  with  his  watch  in  his  hand  and  a 
finger  on  Dana's  pulse.  But  he  sat  till  the  time 
appointed,  yielding  nothing,  I  am  sure,  in  this 
piteous  battle;  nor  did  my  poor  boy  beg  for 
quarter,  not  once.  They  fought  it  out  together, 
man  to  man. 

"  Can't  you  give  us  a  little  music,  Mrs.  Her- 
win  2 "  asked  the  doctor,  in  a  matter-of-fact 
way.  But  the  interrogation  was  a  command.  I 
went  to  the  piano  and  played  for  a  while,  blun- 
dering along  with  old  things  of  Schubert  and 
Schumann  that  Dana  and  I  used  to  like,  but  stu- 
pidly enough  ;  and  I  do  not  sing.  After  a  time 
I  stopped  and  went  into  the  library.  Dana  was 
there  reading  quietly,  and  Marion  and  Job  were 
playing  about  his  feet.  Robert  had  gone. 
Dana's  eyes  had  their  varnished  look  —  but,  ah, 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE    345 

so  much  less  of  it,  and  softer ;  it  is  no  longer 
painful.  I  went  to  him,  and  he  clung  to  my 
hand  a  little.  Then  I  sat  down  and  began  to 
mend  a  tear  in  the  flounce  of  Dombey's  second 
wife;  and  while  I  was  sewing  quietly,  suddenly 
the  long-silent  power  of  his  hand  upon  the  piano- 
keys  smote  every  nerve  in  my  body.  Then  his 
shaken  voice  uprose : 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest  ; 

Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest. 
For  those  that  wander  they  know  not  where 
Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care — 

To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Then  his  hand  fell  with  a  crash  upon  the  ivory. 
I  ran,  and  held  his  face  against  my  breast,  and 
bowed  my  own  upon  his  hair,  and  said  to  him — 
I  don't  know  what ;  and  I  kissed  him  in  a  way 
he  used  to  like.  Then  he  whirled  upon  the 
piano-stool,  and  caught  me  and  crushed  me  to 
his  heart. 

"  You  're  the  sweetest  woman  in  the  world  !  " 
he  said.  "I  never  did  deserve  you,  Marna; 
and  now — " 

Then  I  said : 

"  I  always  loved  you,  Dana ;  but  now  I 
honor  you.  It  is  a  manly  fight,  and  you  battle 
like  a  man." 


346     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

"  It  was  n't  a  manly  fall,"  he  quivered  piti- 
fully. "  I  had  n't  any  good  excuse  —  no  terri- 
ble suffering,  as  some  have.  I  thought  I  could 
stop  any  time.  But,  before  God,  Mama,  nobody 
knows  !  Nobody  can" 

"  My  poor  boy !  "  I  sobbed.  "  My  poor,  poor 
boy ! " 

I  do  not  cry  in  these  days  —  never  for  Dana 
to  see  me.  I  think  this  was  the  first  time,  and  I 
was  ashamed  and  terrified  at  what  I  had  done. 
But  it  did  not  seem  to  harm  him  any ;  I  think  it 
even  did  him  good.  He  looked  at  me  with 
such  a  look  as  I  would  have  died  for  joy  to  see 
upon  his  face  once,  in  that  time  before  he  went 
away. 

"  If  it  had  n't  been  for  you,  my  girl  — "  he  fal- 
tered. He  whirled  and  struck  the  piano  with  a  few 
resounding  chords.  "  When  I  get  well,  Marna, 
I  will  make  it  up  to  you,"  he  said.  He  played 
and  sang  no  more ;  but  we  passed  a  gentle  even- 
ing, and  he  went  quietly  to  bed. 

I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  real,  live  happiness 
before  —  not  growing  happiness,  with  roots. 
"The  madness  has  gone,  but  the  dearness  re- 
mains." 

April  the  fifth. 

TO-DAY  we  were  driving  alone,  and  the  soft  air 
had  wings.      Dana  seemed   to  be    lifted    upon 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     347 

them  to  some  lonely  upper  ether  where  I  could 
not  follow  him.  There  is  no  solitude,  I  believe, 
after  all,  like  that  of  the  soldier  in  a  profound 
moral  struggle;  it  is  more  separate  than  that  of 
any  mere  misery.  Dana  looked  exalted  and  re- 
mote. Lately  he  has  made  great  advances  and 
gains  upon  himself  in  the  process  of  his  cure. 
These  have  weakened  his  physical  but  intensi- 
fied his  moral  vitality.  He  said  abruptly : 

"  You  see,  I  thought  if  I  went  away  I  could 
get  rid  of  it.  I  did  n't  want  to  have  anybody 
know  —  I  felt  ashamed.  There  was  one  time  I 
thought  if  you  knew,  I  should  dislike  you.  I 
could  n't  tell  how  you  would  take  it  —  a  man 
can't  bear  to  be  lectured.  If  I  had  only  known ! 
Marna,  you  have  been  a  lovely  girl.  You  're 
too  good  'for  the  likes  of  me.'"  He  tried  to 
laugh  it  off,  but  his  lip  trembled. 

"  I  thought  the  voyage  would  do  something ; 
but  it  made  everything  worse.  When  I  got  to 
California  —  a  man  would  n't  ever  need  natural- 
ization papers  in  hell,  not  after  that."  .  .  . 

..."  Thought  I  had  deserted  you,  Marna '? 
Well,  I  had,  I  suppose.  I  could  n't  come  home 
—  like  that.  I  thought  I  should  drop  out  of 
sight,  die  of  an  overdose  some  night,  and  be  out 
of  everybody's  way,  It  put  itself  to  me  in  that 
light.  I  used  to  say :  '  You  're  a  disgraceful 


348     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

wreck.  You  'd  only  shame  her.  Perish,  and 
rid  her  of  you.  It  's  the  only  manly  thing  left 
for  you  to  do.'  Three  or  four  times  I  mixed  the 
overdose,  and  lay  down  to  take  it  and  die ;  and 
I  had  a  letter  that  I  kept  ready  for  you  when 
everything  was  over.  Then  I  would  see  that 
little  quiver  of  your  chin  — " 

"  Where  is  that  letter,  Dear  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  gave  it  to  the  doctor,"  he  said.  "  He 
did  n't  want  me  to  have  it  around.  I  asked  him 
to  burn  it.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  Hazelton, 
Marna —  Say,  Marna,  have  you  any  idea  what 
that  fellow  has  done  for  me  *?  " 

He  checked  the  horse,  and  we  turned  toward 
home.  Dana  drove  rapidly  and  in  silence. 
When  we  came  in  sight  of  the  hospital  we  met 
the  doctor,  driving  too.  He  had  the  paralytic 
patient  in  the  buggy,  and  no  speech  or  language 
could  tell  the  transfiguration  of  the  poor  thing's 
face.  But  Robert  looked  worn. 

"  Marna,"  said  Dana,  abruptly,  "  I  wonder  you 
never  fell  in  love  with  him.  I  should  n't  have 
blamed  you." 

I  slid  my  hand  into  my  husband's,  and  his  closed 
upon  my  wrist. 

May  the  twenty-second. 

IT  is  a  week  to-night  since  it  happened,  and  I  am 
writing  (as  I  do)  because  nothing  else  will  rest  me. 

Dana  went  to  bed  as  usual,  and  no  one  thought 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     349 

of  any  trouble  or  any  danger.  He  had  been 
so  much  better,  and  Eliot  has  not  been  required 
to  stay  for  quite  a  while.  Dana  and  I  have 
fought  it  out  alone  —  I  giving  the  diminished 
dose,  by  the  doctor's  orders ;  it  had  grown  quite 
small.  About  two  weeks  ago  my  poor  boy  asked 
Robert's  permission  to  handle  the  dose  himself. 
"  Don't  you  think  I  am  fit  to  be  trusted  now  ?  " 
he  asked  abruptly.  So  Robert  trusted  him.  And 
everything  went  well,  for  the  quantity  was  care- 
fully prescribed  and  watched,  and  it  lessened 
regularly  and  rapidly,  day  by  day.  The  doctor 
says  that  he  has  never  seen  any  person  show  the 
pluck  and  determination  that  Dana  has  shown  in 
ridding  himself  of  his  affliction. 

"  It  is  a  manly  record,"  Robert  said.  "  Mr. 
Herwin  has  won  my  unqualified  respect." 

I  had  begun  to  feel  very  proud  of  Dana. 

On  this  evening  that  I  refer  to  (it  was  Sunday 
evening)  Dana  had  been  playing  a  little,  and 
he  tried  to  sing  the  "Bedouin  Love-Song";  but 
he  could  not  do  it,  for  it  seemed  to  move  him 
too  much,  and  emotion  saps  his  strength.  He 
began : 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee  — 

but  stopped  abruptly  and  left  the  room. 

He  called  me  presently,  saying  that  he  thought 
he  would  go  to  bed ;  and  I  went  up  to  help  him 


350     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

in  the  little  ways  he  likes,  and  kissed  him  good 
night,  and  went  to  Marion,  for  she  cried  for 
me.  Then  I  locked  the  front  door,  and  Job 
came  up  with  me,  and  trotted  into  Dana's  room 
at  once.  Job  has  slept  on  his  master's  bed 
every  night  since  Dana  came  home.  Dana  was 
sleeping  quietly,  so  I  went  to  bed,  the  doors 
being  open  between  our  rooms,  and  the  com- 
pass-candle burning  on  Dana's  table. 

Once  or  twice  in  the  night  I  crept  in  to  make 
sure  that  all  was  well,  and  once  he  kissed  me 
and  said  I  was  a  dear,  sweet  girl ;  but  I  slept  be- 
tweenwhiles,  feeling  quite  at  ease  about  him, 
and  I  was  asleep  when  Job  came  into  my  room. 
I  think  the  dog  had  tried  to  wake  me  without 
at  first  succeeding,  for  he  was  pulling  hard  at 
my  hand  with  his  thin  old  paws  when  I  be- 
came aware  of  him.  I  understood  at  once,  and 
I  sprang.  Job  never  cries  "  Wolf! "  and  he  is 
wiser  than  most  people. 

"  Is  Master  sick,  Job  *?  "  I  cried ;  but  I  ran. 

The  compass-candle  was  burning  brightly; 
and  when  it  showed  me  Dana's  face,  I  gave  such 
a  cry  that  Ellen  rushed  from  the  nursery,  and 
the  house  was  aroused  in  a  moment.  I  man- 
aged to  articulate,  "  The  telephone !  the  doc- 
tor ! "  while  I  lifted  my  dear  boy  to  the  air  and 
did  what  I  could  for  him.  This  was  little  enough, 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     351 

for  he  could  take  no  stimulants,  and  he  seemed 
to  me  to  be  dying  in  my  arms.  I  had  nothing 
to  offer  him  but  love  and  air — the  two  elements 
on  which  human  life  depends.  Some  one  had 
flung  up  the  window,  and  I  held  him  to  my 
heart  and  whispered  to  him : 

"  Live,  Dana,  live  !  I  love  you,  Dana.  Oh, 
try  to  live !  " 

I  was  babbling  in  this  way,  like  a  bride,  when 
I  looked  up  and  saw  the  doctor's  startled  face. 
It  was  now  half-past  two  o'clock,  the  fatal  hour 
"  between  the  night  and  dawning  "  when  mortal 
strength  is  at  its  lowest,  the  dead-line  of  im- 
periled life. 

From  then  till  seven  o'clock  we  fought  for 
Dana  —  science  and  love,  the  doctor  and  I.  To 
my  fading  hour  I  shall  see  Robert  as  he  looked 
that  night.  Beyond  a  few  curt  professional 
orders  he  did  not  speak.  His  jaws  shut  like 
steel  locks.  His  gentle  eyes  grew  terrible,  and 
challenged  death.  Again  and  again  my  dear 
boy  sank  away  from  us,  and  once  the  pulse 
stopped  altogether;  but  the  doctor  called  my 
husband's  spirit  back. 

I  could  feel  that  a  flicker  of  the  judgment,  a 
blur  upon  the  heart,  any  error  or  failure  in  the 
man,  would  have  cost  everything.  Dana's  life 
lay  in  Robert's  hand  as  utterly  as  if  it  had  been 


352     CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE 

a  little  jewel  put  there  for  safe-keeping,  and 
blown  through  sheltering  fingers  by  a  whirlwind. 

Afterward,  when  it  was  over,  I  lifted  my  eyes 
to  the  doctor's  face.  Dana's  had  been  no  whiter 
in  all  those  hours. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  an  overdose  ?  "  I  breathed. 
"  He  took  too  much  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  dose  at  all,"  said  Robert. 
"  Mr.  Herwin  has  taken  no  morphine  for  twenty- 
four  hours." 

He  held  up  the  vial  with  the  thick  white 
liquid,  and  showed  me  the  ebb-line. 

"  I  could  not  understand  why  you  repeated 
the  dose,"  I  whispered.  "  It  terrified  me  to  see 
you  do  it." 

The  doctor  made  no  comment  then,  except 
to  say  that  he  would  send  Eliot  over  at  once. 
But  the  next  day  Robert  talked  with  me  a  little 
about  what  had  happened.  He  told  me  that  a 
man  who  could  do  what  Dana  had  done  had  in 
him  that  which  physicians  call  the  vital  essence ; 
Dana  had  shown  that  he  possessed  the  moral 
basis  for  physical  renewal.  "  I  am  now  ready 
to  tell  you  that  your  husband  is  capable  of  cure," 
the  doctor  said.  "  He  will  recover,  by  God's 
grace." 

"And  yours,"  I  tried  to  say.     But  the  words 


CONFESSIONS   OF   A   WIFE       353 

refused  me.  They  seemed  like  beggars  in  a 
palace. 

June  the  sixteenth. 

MINNIE  CURTIS  came  over  to-day.  She  brought 
Dana's  violin;  for  it  seems  she  has  kept  it  all 
this  while.  Dana  thanked  her  indifferently. 
She  asked  him  to  play  a  duet,  but  he  said  he 
did  not  feel  well  enough,  and  added  that  he  was 
out  of  practice.  She  took  up  the  "  Bedouin  Love- 
Song,"  and  drummed  the  prelude.  Dana  looked 
annoyed  and  left  the  room.  When  Minnie 
started  to  go  it  was  dusk,  and  I  asked  Dana  if 
he  did  not  feel  like  walking  home  with  her. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said ;  "  put  your  hat  on, 
Mama." 

So  Dana  and  Job  and  I  escorted  Minnie 
home.  On  the  way  back  I  asked  him : 

"Did  she  write  to  you  while  you  were  in 
Uruguay  ?  " 

"  Oh,  bother  Minnie  Curtis ! "  cried  my  hus- 
band. 

When  we  had  got  home  we  sat  down  in 
the  tree-house  for  a  while,  and  the  scent  of  the 
June  lilies  was  so  strong  that  it  made  Dana 
faint.  But  the  breath  of  the  climbing  roses  was 
so  delicate  and  so  joyous  that  I  could  have  wept 
with  comfort. 

"  Duets  are  well  enough  in  their  places,"  said 


354     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

Dana,  comfortably ;  "  but  when  it  comes  to  real 
life  and  —  trouble  —  there  's  nothing  for  a  man 
like  an  unselfish  wife.  .  „  .  Marna,  you  're  a 
lovely  girl ! " 

We  sat  in  the  tree-house  with  clasped  hands. 
Something  dearer  than  betrothal,  finer  than  our 
bridal,  drew  us  together.  Dana's  worn  face  held 
an  expression  which  touched  me  indescribably. 
But  the  faintness  increased  upon  him,  and  I  had 
to  get  him  into  the  house.  The  sad  thing  about 
Dana's  convalescent  strength  is  that  it  deserts 
him  so  abruptly,  at  unexpected  moments  and 
for  unthought-of  causes.  Yet  he  is  gaining 
sturdily.  I  am  very  happy. 

Robert  thinks  I  am  overdoing  —  but  I  am 
quite  happy.  Dana  begins  to  show  more  in- 
terest in  Marion  than  he  did.  At  first  it  was 
only  of  me  that  he  seemed  to  think.  He  sits 
in  the  air  and  sun  for  hours,  with  Marion  and 
Job  laughing  and  barking  about  him.  Lately 
he  has  begun  to  read;  I  often  find  him  with 
his  law-books.  Mr.  J.  Harold  Mellenway  has 
been  out  to  see  him.  Next  week  Dana  is  to 
be  allowed  to  go  to  town  alone;  the  doctor 
has  given  this  permission.  All  that  varnished 
look  has  gone  from  Dana's  eyes;  they  do  not 
regain  their  old  insouciance,  and  the  bright  in- 
solence is  beaten  out  of  my  poor  boy's  beauty ; 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     355 

but  I  am  watching  for  the  debonair  in  him  that 
I  loved  so.  Will  it  never  revisit  him  ?  Or 
me? 

"  You  expect  the  miracles,"  said  Robert,  once, 
when  I  spoke  of  this. 

"Because  you  work  them,"  I  replied. 

Robert's  eyes  filled ;  they  do  not  often.  He 
said: 

"  The  miracle  may  be  in  a  man's  own  heart." 

"  Or  in  a  woman's,"  I  answered  him.  Yet 
afterward  I  was  not  quite  sure  that  I  understood 
the  purport  of  his  words;  nor,  perhaps,  of  my 
own.  But  I  had  the  consciousness,  so  frequent 
with  me,  that  Robert  understood  everything, 
and  that  it  did  not  matter  whether  I  did  or 
not. 

Wednesday  evening. 

So  it  was  not  Dana,  and  it  was  not  Man.  I  am 
spared  that  great  dilemma.  And  all  the  scenery 
has  changed  joyously,  and  the  house,  though 
serried  of  women,  seems  to  cry  out  upon  me  no 
more,  but  only  to  lift  to  me  gently  murmuring 
eyes.  There  is  a  soft,  pleased  look  in  the  eyes 
of  contented  women,  not  unlike  that  in  the  eyes 
of  kindly  treated  animals.  I  wonder  if  I  have  it 
myself;  "  for  my  race  is  of  the  Asra." 

Are  womanhood  and  manhood  set  at  civil 
war  ?  Then  so  are  soul  and  body.  There  is  a 


356     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

sketch  of  William  Blake's.  Death,  the  Divider, 
has  divorced  this  elemental  marriage,  sundered 
the  bliss  of  the  spirit  and  the  flesh.  It  is  the 
Resurrection  Day.  Out  of  the  grave  clambers 
the  body  —  a  man  in  the  glory  of  his  youth  and 
vigor.  Down  from  the  ether  sweeps  the  soul  — 
a  woman  fair  and  swift  and  tender.  Anything 
finer  than  the  rapture  on  whose  wings  these 
twain  rush  together  I  never  saw  expressed  by 
any  art  of  pencil  or  of  pen.  It  is  one  of  the 
embraces  that  imagination  dares,  but  on  whose 
mystery  and  ecstasy  hope  does  not  intrude. 

tfhe  Dowe  Cottage,  August  the  twelfth. 
WE  have  been  here  ten  days,  and  are  to  stay  the 
month  out,  by  the  doctor's  orders.  We  both 
needed  it,  he  said.  Dana  has 'gained  blessedly 
since  we  came,  and  is  now  thought  to  be  quite  in 
condition  to  go  back  to  his  law  office  in  the  fall. 
Mr.  Mellenway  comes  over  from  his  place  (he 
is  a  neighbor  this  summer),  now  and  then,  to  see 
Dana,  and  they  talk  about  it.  It  is  inexpressibly 
touching  to  see  how  happy  my  poor  boy  is  in 
the  prospect  of  doing  a  man's  work  again.  In 
fact,  we  are  so  light-hearted  that  I  do  not  feel  as 
if  it  could  last.  One  never  again  quite  trusts 
human  happiness,  I  find,  after  one  has  experi- 
enced great  misery. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     357 

We  are  all  children  playing  on  the  sea-shore 
together  —  Marion  and  Job  and  Ellen  and 
Luella;  but  I  think  Dana  and  I  are  the  biggest 
children  of  all.  We  spend  hours  of  every  day 
upon  the  sand,  not  reading,  not  talking,  leaning 
on  that  silence  which  is  more  than  reverie  but 
less  than  thought.  Mercibel  came  out  and  took 
Sunday  with  us.  She  said : 

"  Joy  has  her  elect,  as  well  as  sorrow." 
Mercibel  has  her  vacation  just  now,  and  she 
and  her  children  are  in  our  house  at  home  for 
the  month  that  we  are  here.  It  is  a  delight  to 
see  the  happiness  this  gives.  The  doctor  comes 
out  once  a  week.  We  miss  the  doctor  —  some- 
times Dana  more  than  I,  sometimes  I  more 
than  Dana;  we  strike  a  fair  average,  I  think. 
He  is  expected  next  Saturday. 

August  the  seventeenth. 

YESTERDAY  I  had  a  shock  and  fright.  It  came 
to  be  dark,  and  I  could  not  find  Dana  anywhere. 
He  had  seemed  very  quiet  and  well  all  day,  and 
we  had  been  together  a  good  deal ;  but  fearing  to 
sate  him  with  tenderness, —  for  the  happiest 
wife  should  reserve  herself,  I  am  beginning  to 
believe, —  I  went  up  to  put  Marion  to  bed,  and 
lingered,  leaving  her  father  alone  on  the  piazza. 
He  was  watching  for  Robert,  who  was  delayed, 


358     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

and  had  telegraphed  us  not  to  expect  him  until 
we  should  see  him. 

When  I  got  down-stairs  Dana  was  gone,  and 
Job.  It  was  then  quite  black,  for  the  clouds 
were  piling  for  a  shower,  and  the  sea  was  thun- 
dering. I  ran  down  to  the  rocks  and  the  little 
beach.  The  surf  was  throwing  up  its  hands, 
and  seemed  to  me  —  for  I  was  excited  and 
startled  —  to  wring  them.  A  flash  of  lightning 
revealed  the  fretted  outlines  of  the  weir  and  the 
fishermen's  dories.  In  one  of  these  I  saw  the 
figure  of  a  man.  He  was  rowing,  and  the  boat 
was  turning  out.  Clinging  to  the  stern  seat 
sat  a  little  patient,  watchful  dog.  I  threw  the 
whole  force  of  my  soul  and  body  into  my  voice, 
and  my  "  Dana  I "  might  have  called  a  spirit 
from  the  grave,  I  thought.  But  he  did  not  hear 
me,  being  absorbed  in  God  knows  what  abyss. 

"Job!  Job!"  I  cried.  "Oh,  Job!  Tell 
Master!  " 

Job's  bark  came  instantly  to  me  —  excited 
and  anxious,  the  high  bark  of  aroused  canine  re- 
sponsibility. There  was  lightning  again,  and  I 
saw  that  the  little  dog  had  crawled  over  in  the 
rocking  boat  and  put  his  arms  about  his  master's 
neck.  But  now  it  was  thundering,  and  no  voice 
could  carry,  either  mine  or  Job's.  While  I 
stood  distressed  and  uncertain  in  the  dark, —  for  it 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     359 

did  not  lighten  any  more,  and  the  shower  bab- 
bled away  foolishly, —  suddenly  the  keel  grated 
under  my  very  feet.  Job  sprang  into  the  surf, 
and  dashed  himself,  drenched  and  ecstatic,  upon 
me.  Dana  slowly  tied  the  painter  to  the  haul- 
ing-line,  and  drew  the  dory  out,  hand  over  hand. 

"  Frightened,  Marna  ?  "  he  said. 

I  went  down  quietly,  and  helped  him  haul  the 
dory  off.  I  did  not  speak. 

"  I  'm  all  right,"  he  muttered ;  "  I  was  only  — 
hard  put  to  it,  that 's  all." 

We  pulled  on  the  hauling-line  together  till 
the  dory  was  out,  and  then  we  came  up  the 
rocks,  silently.  Dana  did  not  take  my  out- 
stretched hand,  and  I  perceived  that  his  plight 
was  too  sore  for  sympathy.  A  wife  has  learned 
half  the  lesson  of  life,  I  think,  if  she  has  learned 
when  (and  when  not)  to  leave  a  man  to  fight 
his  direst  battles  without  her. 

Half-way  up  to  the  house  we  met  the  doctor. 
Dana  uttered  a  piteous  exclamation  : 

"  Hazelton !  I  thought  you  were  n't  coming ! 
I  swore  I  would  n't  send  for  you,"  he  added. 

"  I  did  my  best,"  sighed  Robert.  "  I  have 
some  pretty  sick  people  at  home." 

He  fell  into  step  with  his  patient.  I  slid  away 
and  left  the  two  men  alone.  The  doctor  re- 
mained with  Dana  all  the  night. 


360     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

In  the  morning  Robert  and  I  found  a  few  mo- 
ments apart. 

"  Is  it  always  going  to  be  like  this  ?  "  I  asked 
at  once. 

"  Possibly." 

"  Has  he  got  to  fight  so  —  to  the  end  *?  " 

"  Probably  —  at  times." 

"  Was  he  in  danger  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Yet  you  count  upon  a  sound  recovery  *?  " 

"  I  count  upon  recovery  because  he  fights." 

"  It  is  so  hard  for  him ! "  I  said.  "  And  so 
splendid  in  him  ! " 

"  I  respect  your  husband,  Marna  " —  Robert 
drew  a  hard,  slow  breath  — "  as  much  as  any 
patient  I  ever  had  in  my  life,  and  I  want  you  to 
know  it.  Doctors  don't  always,  you  know  — 
they  see  so  much  moral  weakness ;  it  wears  on 
them.  I  wish  you  to  understand  that,  from  my 
point  of  view,  you  have  reason  to  be  very  proud 
of  Mr.  Herwin." 

"Robert,"  I  demanded,  "tell  me  the  utter 
truth.  How  long  can  he  fight  like  this?  It 
seems  to  me  as  if  his  body  weakened  while  his 
soul  strengthens.  I  must  know  what  is  before 
me.  Will  my  husband  live  —  for  many  years  ?  " 

"By  God's  grace,"  said  Robert,  using  the 
solemn  words  that  he  had  used  before. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     361 

"  You  do  not  tell  me  all  you  think  ! "  I  cried. 

"  Be  Love  incarnate  to  him,  Marna,"  evaded 
Robert,  gently.  "  Give  him  all  its  price.  All  a 
man's  chance  lies  in  the  heart  of  his  wife.  And 
yours,"  he  added,  '-'•yours — "  The  doctor  did 
not  finish  his  sentence,  and  we  talked  no  more ; 
for  Dana,  with  the  havoc  on  his  happy  face, 
came  up  and  joined  us. 

September  the  nineteenth. 

TO-MORROW  is  our  wedding-day,  and  I  have  a 
surprise  for  Dana.  My  poor  boy  has  never 
spoken  to  me  of  his  missing  marriage-ring ;  nor 
I  of  it  to  him.  But  I  can  see  him  sometimes 
looking  wistfully  at  his  bare  left  hand;  and  last 
night  he  kissed  my  rings,  both  of  them,  the  ruby 
and  the  gold,  in  a  way  that  went  to  my  heart, 
but  he  said  nothing  at  all.  Dana  has  grown  so 
kind,  so  gentle,  that  it  frightens  me.  That  ter- 
rible irritability  of  his  is  melting  away  from  him. 
Sometimes  I  wish  I  could  see  more  of  it,  and 
there  are  moments  when  I  think  if  he  were  a 
little  cruel,  as  he  used  to  be,  I  should  feel  hap- 
pier about  him.  When  he  swears,  or  is  down- 
right cross,  my  spirits  are  quite  good.  It  is  not 
natural  for  Dana  to  be  patient,  and  it  troubles  me 
to  see  him  unnaturally  considerate.  Character 
has  its  price,  as  well  as  love ;  and  it  seems  to  me 


362     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

as  if  he  paid  the  cost  of  his  in  the  treasury  of  his 
life. 

I  have  got  a  wedding-ring  for  Dana. 

September  the  twenty-first. 

How  natural  is  joy,  my  heart! 
How  easy  after  sorrow! 

WE  had  a  dear  day.  It  was  bride's  weather 
without  and  within.  Dana  got  up  very  early, 
for  he  was  restless  and  sleepless,  and  began  to 
decorate  the  cottage  with  pearl-white  roses  and 
ferns  —  the  fine  ones,  no  large  fronds. 

"You  shall  be  a  bride  again,  Marna,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  no  other  present  for  you,  Dear. 
I  looked  at  a  lot  of —  little  things ;  but  nothing 
suited  me." 

We  were  smothered  in  flowers.  Everybody 
sent  something  —  the  Grays,  the  Mellenways, 
Mercibel,  and  a  few  old  friends  in  town  who 
knew;  the  neighbors,  the  servants,  Minnie 
Curtis  and  the  old  doctor,  the  staff  from  the 
hospital,  and  two  or  three  of  the  patients.  The 
paralytic  produced  hydrangeas  and  a  Bible  text. 
But  the  old  lady  distinguished  by  fits  offered 
a  wreath  of  immortelles  (as  if  we  had  been  a 
funeral),  and  wrote  upon  her  card :  "  I  have  n't 
had  one  for  six  weeks." 

Marion  was  quite  well  (having  had  one  of  her 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     363 

throats  the  day  before).  I  put  her  in  the  old 
May-flower  muslin  that  I  have  made  over  for 
her,  and  Job  wore  a  white  necktie.  Marion 
had  varnished  the  doll's  house  for  the  occasion, 
and  the  effect  was  heightened  by  the  fact  that 
she  had  performed  this  work  of  art  with  the  mu- 
cilage-brush, which  she  had  dipped  into  the  ink- 
bottle  in  the  process.  Dombey  was  induced  to 
ride  to  the  festivities  in  an  automobile;  but 
Dombey's  second  wife  followed  at  a  deferential 
distance,  dragging  a  baby-carriage  with  twins. 
Poor  Banny  Doodle  was  conspicuously  absent, 
having  at  last  met  a  final  fate  in  the  clothes- 
wringer  ;  she  is  temporarily  interred  at  the  foot 
of  the  tree-house.  Invitations  to  a  ceremonious 
funeral  are  to  be  out,  it  is  understood,  next 
week.  Marion  develops  a  quaint  quality,  and 
something  like  imagination.  She  begins  to  be 
old  enough  to  interest  her  father.  He  does  not 
like  too  new  a  baby.  When  she  was  born  he 
asked  if  she  were  Maltese. 

THE  doctor  did  not  come  over  yesterday  at 
all ;  nor  did  he  send  us  any  flowers  or  message 
with  the  others.  I  could  not  deny  to  myself 
that  I  should  have  felt  happier  through  the  day 
if  he  had.  It  is  a  strange  matter  that  love, 
which  exiles  friendship  at  the  first,  may  recall  it 
at  the  last;  yes,  and  love  the  truer  and  be  the 


364     CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE 

gladder  for  it.  At  least,  that  is  the  road  of  my 
experience.  I  wonder  if  it  is  a  forest  path,  un- 
beaten though  not  untrodden  ?  I  think  of  that 
old  question  that  I  used  to  ask  myself  about 
Man  and  Dana.  To  me,  beyond  the  lot  of 
women,  has  been  given  faith  in  a  fair  and  noble 
friendship.  Is  it  Man  *?  Or  is  it  Robert  ? 

Just  as  the  sun  sank,  James  came  over  with 
something  under  his  arm,  and  the  doctor's  love. 
Dana  untied  the  package  excitedly, —  he  was  as 
happy  about  everything  as  if  he  had  been  a  boy 
at  a  birthday  party, —  and  we  thought  it  was  a 
picture.  But  it  was  not  a  picture :  it  was  a 
prayer.  There  was  a  deep  frame  of  bright  gold, 
and  a  panel  of  dulled  gold,  and  the  letters  flick- 
ered from  it  like  little  flames  of  crimson  and  of 
white.  The  words  were  eight,  and  they  prayed 
the  Prayer  of  Tobit  in  the  Apocrypha : 


MERCIFULLY    ORDAIN 
THAT    WE    MAY    BECOME    AGED 
TOGETHER 


Dana's  eyes  filled.  Neither  of  us  spoke.  We 
took  the  prayer  up-stairs,  and  hung  it  in  my  hus- 
band's room. 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A   WIFE       365 

"  What  follows  is  to  the  Music  l^aradi  and  the 
Mode  Rupaka"  So  it  ran  in  the  Indian  Song  of 
Songs,  when  Radha,  forgiving  Krishna,  took 
him  to  her  heart,  and  they  were  married. 

What  follows  is  in  the  mode  solitary,  and  to  the 
music  of  love  and  of  repentance.  For  I  have  now 
come  to  a  page  in  my  record  which  my  husband 
will  not  see,  and  through  it  I  draw  the  dele-sign 
of  my  separate  soul.  The  happiest  marriage 
may  have  these  erasures  in  shared  experience, 
and  perhaps  finish  the  great,  completed  sentence 
of  life  not  the  less  comfortably  for  that.  I  do 
not  deceive  myself.  I  do  not  suppose  that  Dana 
and  I  have  had  the  happiest  marriage.  But  the 
end  is  not  yet.  And  if  we  have  saved  our 
sacred  opportunity,  where  may  it  lead  us  *?  The 
salvation  of  an  imperiled  peace  has  I  do  not  know 
what  of  exquisite  privilege.  We  seem  to  be 
all  the  while  expecting  the  unknown,  the  un- 
tried, as  we  did  when  we  were  betrothed,  as  we  did 
when  newly  wedded.  Still  we  have  the  elusive 
to  overtake ;  even  yet  the  eidolon  flies  before  us. 
There  is  an  Indian  summer  of  married  life.  In 
that  deep  and  purple  atmosphere,  sun-smitten, 
warmed  to  the  heart,  will  April  seem  a  pale 
affair  ?  I  cannot  tell.  "  There  is  burning  haze 
on  all  the  hills.  My  eyes  are  dim.  I  can  see 
but  a  very  little  way." 


366     CONFESSIONS    OF  A  WIFE 

Now  one  thought  has  troubled  me  for  this 
many  a  week ;  and  on  my  wedding-day  it  took 
definite  thorn-shape  and  hid  in  my  bride-roses. 

As  it  grew  to  be  dusk,  a  question  which  I 
have  often  considered  presented  itself  to  me  in 
such  a  way  that  I  could  parry  it  no  longer,  and 
I  decided  suddenly,  and  for  myself,  that  I  would 
write  to  my  husband  the  note  which  I  append. 
I  decided  this  without  consulting  the  doctor, 
and  risking  something  of  the  effect  on  Dana  of 
what  I  meant  to  do ;  but  it  is  as  true  that  there 
are  times  when  no  risks  can  come  between  the 
souls  of  wife  and  husband  as  it  is  that  there  can 
be  no  third  estate  in  marriage.  So  I  wrote  the 
note,  and  slipped  it  into  his  hand,  and  evaded 
him,  and  left  him  to  read  it. 

"Qur  Wedding-day;  twilight. 
"DANA  MY  DARLING:  Before  we  were  married 
and  since — and  while  you  were  away  —  I  have 
kept  a  secret  from  you.  I  cannot  be  happy  to 
keep  it  any  longer.  All  this  while,  Dana,  I 
have  written  something  that  you  have  never 
seen.  It  is  rather  long,  and  it  will  pain  you 
sometimes ;  and  it  will  tell  you  —  perhaps  it 
will  tell  you  what  you  do  not  know,  perhaps 
not:  I  cannot  say.  You  may  feel  that  you  have 
something  to  forgive  me ;  for  I,  too,  have  had 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A    WIFE     367 

my  holy  war,  and  if  I  have  come  out  of  it 
unwounded,  that  is  owing  not  so  much  to  any 
superior  quality  in  me  as  it  is  to  the  loyalty  and 
high  nature  of  one  who  has  fought  for  us  both, 
and  saved  us  —  you  from  ruin  and  death,  and  me 
from  misery  or  from  mistake. 

"I  have  a  wedding-present  for  you,  Dear  —  a 
little  one ;  but  before  I  give  it  to  you  I  feel 
that  I  must  show  you  all  my  heart;  for  I  must 
be  honest  with  you  to  my  uttermost  —  you  know 
you  used  to  say  that  was  my  weakness.  This 
writing  that  I  speak  of  holds  me.  I  keep  back 
no  part  of  the  price.  Will  you  take  it  —  the 
Book  of  the  Heart  of  the  Wife  ? 

"  It  is  like  your  ruby  on  my  finger,  blazing 
deep  to  the  core,  if  you  look  at  it  in  the  right 
light  (and  all  the  crimson  fires  are  yours,  my 
dear) ;  but  if  you  were  to  look  at  it  in  the 
wrong  way  —  I  dare  not  think  of  it !  I  will  not ! 

"Give  me  no  time  to  think,  Dana,  lest  my 
courage  fail  me,  but  answer  me  at  once. 
"  Your  trembling 

"  MARNA,  Wife." 

Now  when  Dana  had  read  this  note,  such  a 
startled  spark  flickered  in  his  tired,  happy  eyes 
that  I  was  terrified,  lest  what  I  had  done  was  a 
mistake  and  would  harm  him;  and  I  should,  I 


368    CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

think,  have  repented  and  compromised,  and 
withheld  the  Book  of  the  Heart  from  my  hus- 
band, after  all,  or  until  another  day.  But  he 
strode  into  my  room  where  I  sat  quaking,  and  im- 
periously commanded  me,  and  I  found  myself 
but  a  reed  before  the  wind  of  his  aroused  will, 
as  I  used  to  be  when  we  first  loved  each  other. 

"  I  must  have  the  book,"  he  said.  "  Don't  be 
afraid.  Give  it  to  me."  So  I  gave  him  the 
book  —  saving  only  this  which  I  am  writing 
now,  and  that  one  page  where  it  was  written  in 
the  Dowe  Cottage  that  the  doctor  evaded  one 
of  my  questions  about  Dana  if  the  battle  with 
his  affliction  continued  so  sore  and  so  exhaust- 
ing. 

I  gave  him  the  book,  and  he  went  away  into 
his  own  room,  and  locked  his  door,  and  read.  I 
went  into  my  room,  and  got  out  of  my  wedding- 
dress  and  into  my  ruby  gown, —  the  dear  old 
faded  thing !  —  and  threw  up  the  window,  lest 
I  suffocate  with  the  beating  of  my  heart ;  and  I 
took  down  my  hair  and  braided  it  for  the  night, 
and  lay  down  on  my  bed,  and  said  to  myself:1 

"  I  have  committed  the  worst  mistake  of  my 
life.  In  my  obstinate  impulse  to  be  honest  — 
just  to  set  my  own  soul  at  ease  —  I  have  run  the 
risk  of  estranging  Dana  forever.  And  this 
foolish  manuscript  may  make  him  ill;  it  might 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     369 

even  be  very  dangerous  for  him.  .  .  .  What 
have  I  done?" 

Two  whirling  hours  spun  between  us,  and  he 
made  no  sign.  All  the  rooms  were  still.  The 
child  was  asleep ;  the  servants  were  gone  out : 
Dana  and  I  were  alone  in  the  house.  The  air 
seemed  to  have  absorbed  the  scent  of  the  souls 
of  all  the  bridal  flowers  —  hundreds  of  them  — 
in  our  rooms,  and  in  the  silent  spaces  of  the 
house  down-stairs.  Job  was  wandering  about 
the  house,  neglected  and  forlorn.  He  crept  in 
on  tiptoe,  as  if  he  knew  that  he  ought  not  to  in- 
trude. When  he  found  me  alone,  he  sprang 
and  kissed  me  rapturously,  and  put  his  poor  old 
paws  about  my  neck,  and  I  said  aloud : 

"  You  've  stood  by  me  through  it  all,  Job ! " 

That  trifling,  commonplace  thing  and  the  sound 
of  my  own  voice  somehow  steadied  me.  I  got 
up  and  took  Job  into  the  nursery,  and  put  him 
to  bed  in  his  basket  by  Marion's  crib,  and  kissed 
them  both,  the  child  and  the  dog,  and  came 
back  into  my  own  room. 

When  I  had  done  so,  I  found  that  Dana  was 
there.  He  had  brought  the  compass-candle 
and  set  it  down  upon  the  table.  Beside  the 
candle  lay  the  Book  of  the  Heart,  a  mass  of 
crushed  and  crumpled  manuscript,  scattered  any- 
how. Dana  was  very  pale.  His  face  was,  in 


370     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

fact,  so  rigid  and  unsmiling  that  I  shrank  from 
him,  and  slipped  back  into  a  dark  corner  of  the 
hall.  I  do  not  think  he  saw  me,  for  he  strode 
by  with  ringing  feet,  and  down  the  stairs,  and 
out  of  the  front  door. 

I  came  to  my  senses  at  that,  and  ran  down 
after  him,  calling :  "  Dana !  Dana  dear!  "  But 
he  did  not  hear  me,  or  he  did  not  answer,  and 
melted  into  the  darkness  while  I  spoke.  Such 
a  consciousness  of  what  this  might  mean  surged 
within  me  that  I  could  have  shrieked  for  help ; 
but  I  restrained  myself,  and  only  followed  him 
quietly,  catching  up  my  white  cape  to  cover  me 
as  I  flew  by  the  sofa  in  the  hall. 

He  walked  rapidly,  but  I  ran,  and  so  I  came 
within  sight  of  him  half-way  between  the  tree- 
house  and  the  avenue.  I  did  not  cry  out  to 
him,  or  in  any  way  make  my  presence  known, 
for  the  power  to  do  so  had  gone  out  in  me,  like 
the  bubbling  of  a  drowning  voice  under  water. 
When  I  saw  that  he  had  his  face  set  toward  the 
hospital  I  followed  no  farther,  but  crushed  my- 
self into  the  spiraea-bushes  where  it  was  darkest, 
and  so  stood,  shaking.  Dana  went  on  to  the 
hospital,  and  up  the  steps,  and  in.  After  a  little 
hesitation,  I  ran  back  to  the  house,  and  to  the 
telephone.  Mercibel  answered  the  call-bell. 

"  Is  he  with  the  doctor1?  "  I  panted. 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     371 

"  Yes." 

"  Manage  to  get  a  message.  Tell  the  doctor 
not  to  lose  sight  of  him,  for  God's  sake  ! " 

"  Don't  disturb  yourself,"  said  Mercibel.  "  It 
is  quite  unnecessary."  . 

Dizzy  both  with  my  fright  and  with  my  fear, 
I  staggered  out  into  the  air  again,  and  got  as 
far  as  the  tree-house.  There  I  stopped,  and  sat, 
quaking  and  cold.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  my 
own  nature  stood  aloof  and  looked  at  me  criti- 
cally, and  took  sides  against  me,  and  stripped  me 
comfortless,  and  I  argued  with  my  nature. 

"  Happiness  was  in  your  arms,"  I  said,  "  and 
you  opened  them  and  let  it  drop ;  that  's  all. 
Probably  there  are  plenty  of  people  just  as  hon- 
est as  you  are  who  don't  make  so  much  fuss 
about  it.  It  takes  this  to  teach  you  that  reserve 
may  be  just  as  right  and  honorable  as  expres- 
sion, and  sometimes  more  necessary.  .  .  .  Dana 
will  never  forgive  you,  never.  He  has  read  it 
all,  and  gone  straight  to  the  doctor  with  it. 
Probably  Robert  will  never  forgive  you,  either. 
You  have  lost  them  both." 

While  I  sat  there,  stabbing  myself  with  these 
poniards,  footsteps  crackled  on  the  gravel  walk, 
and  I  got  out  of  the  tree-house  and  fled  before 
them,  wrapping  my  long  white  cloak  about  me 
as  I  ran,  drawing  the  girdle  of  my  shabby  gown, 


372     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

and  fastening  the  lace  somehow  at  the  throat, 
for  I  was  not  dressed  to  be  seen.  In  my  distress 
and  hurry  I  stumbled  on  the  piazza  steps  and 
fell,  and  I  heard  a  low,  disturbed  exclamation 
from  the  doctor ;  but  it?  was  my  husband  who 
ran  and  lifted  me.  As  he  did  so  his  arm  went 
about  me,  and  I  leaned  upon  it,  for  I  could  not 
stand,  I  trembled  so. 

"Don't  be  a  goose  now,  Marna,"  said  Dana. 
"  You  've  been  magnificent  too  long !  " 

He  tried  to  laugh  in  his  old,  boyish  way,  but 
he  could  not  do  it.  His  face  was  very  white ; 
it  had  his  beautiful  look. 

"  Here,  Marna,"  he  said,  "  is  the  best  man  I 
ever  knew  in  my  life.  I  've  been  over  to  tell 
him  so." 

Before  I  knew  what  my  husband  meant  to  do, 
he  had  fallen  on  his  knees  before  the  doctor, 
and  had  drawn  me  with  him. 

"  Bless  us,  old  fellow,"  said  Dana.  "  We  — 
we  need  it.  There  is  n't  any  saint  or  minister  I  'd 
ask  it  of  but  vou.  It  's  a  kind  of  a — second 

./ 

ceremony,  don't  you  see  1     My  wife  and  I — " 
But  Dana   choked.      I    think    that    Robert's 

hands  trembled  for  a  moment  upon  our  bowed 

heads.     I  think  he  said  : 

"The  Lord  bless  you,  and  keep  you,  .  .  .  and 

give  you  peace." 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE    373 

But  when  I  raised  my  raining  eyes  my  hus- 
band and  I  were  alone  upon  the  dark  piazza. 
Dana  led  me  into  the  house,  and  shut  the  door, 
and  locked  it;  then  drew  me  up  the  stairs  and 
into  our  own  rooms.  And  when  the  doors  of 
these  were  shut,  he  held  out  both  his  arms;  so 
I  ran  to  them,  and  they  closed  about  me. 

"  You  're  a  lovely  girl ! "  said  Dana.  "  I 
never  half  deserved  you,  Marna.  ...  I  never 
shall.  Have  I  been  too  sure  you  would  forgive 
me,  dear  *?  .  .  .  Say,  Marna,  after  all  that  —  are 
you  sure  you  want  me?" 

Then  I  took  out  the  ring  that  I  had  worn  all 
day  on  a  chain  against  my  heart,  till  I  could 
gather  my  courage  to  show  it  to  Dana  —  the 
wedding-ring,  all  warm  as  it  was.  I  put  it  to 
my  lips  before  I  put  it  on  his  finger.  Then  I 
laid  my  cheek  upon  his  hand.  But  when  I 
raised  my  face,  I  heard  him  say,  as  he  had  said 
it  in  my  dream :  "  tfhis  is  the  kiss  that  lives" 

WE  sat  on  in  the  dim  room ;  it  was  rose- 
scented  and  still.  Dana  got  into  the  easy-chair, 
and  took  me  in  his  lap. 

"  I  am  too  heavy,"  I  said ;  "  you  are  too 
tired  to  hold  me,  Dear." 

But  Dana  laughed. 

"  Why,  you  've  got  on  that  dear  old  gown!" 


374     CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE 

he  said.  He  took  a  piece  of  the  faded  velvet 
and  lifted  it  slowly  to  his  lips. 

September  the  twenty-second. 

DANA  has  been  worse  for  all  the  excitement,  as  I 
feared.  He  kept  up  joyously  until  yesterday  after- 
noon, when  he  suffered  one  of  his  sudden  reac- 
tions, and  we  sent  for  the  doctor  quickly.  He  was 
not  in,  so  I  had  to  do  the  best  I  could  for  my 
dear  boy  alone.  As  it  happened,  I  made  out 
pretty  well,  and  he  did  not  sink,  as  he  used  to 
do,  but  only  grew  faint,  and  then  stronger,  and 
faint  again ;  but  in  the  end  he  rallied  grandly.  I 
have  not  felt  so  encouraged  about  Dana  at  any  time. 

When  I  was  reading  a  novel  to  him  after- 
ward, to  divert  him  from  his  suffering,  suddenly 
he  interrupted  me : 

"  Put  it  down,  Marna.  It  seems  dull  after 
the  Book  of  the  Heart.  Real  things  are  the 
only  interesting  ones,  are  n't  they  ?  That 
was  n't  much  of  a  fellow,  that  hero.  Say, 
Marna,  there  's  one  thing  I  want  you  to  un- 
derstand. You  don't  know  men,  and  I  do.  I 
tell  you,  Hazelton  is  no  common  sort.  He  is 
like  a  fellow  seen  in  a  mist  —  taller  than  the 
rest  of  us;  yet  when  you  come  up  to  him  he  is 
just  as  real,  a  man  all  the  same  —  God  bless 
him  anyhow ! " 


CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE     375 

When  it  came  to  be  evening,  Dana  asked  for 
the  doctor. 

*'  I  have  n't  seen  him  for  two  days !  "  he  com- 
plained. 

The  telephone  was  out  of  order,  and  Ellen 
was  putting  Marion  to  bed,  so  I  caught  up  my 
white  cape  and  slipped  out  and  over  to  call  Rob- 
ert myself. 

I  ran  up  the  steps  of  my  father's  old  home, 
and  into  the  office  of  the  hospital.  No  one  was 
there,  and  I  sat  down  in  Robert's  chair  to  wait 
for  him.  His  desk  was  brightly  lighted,  and  an 
open  book  lay  upon  it  —  not  a  medical  book, 
plainly.  I  picked  it  up  (I  felt  sure  he  would 
not  mind)  and  glanced  at  it.  It  was  in  French. 
I  translate  from  memory,  and  negligently 
enough,  for  I  read  too  quickly  to  recall  the 
French  : 

"Yet  I  love  her." 

"  But  she  does  not  love  you." 

"Yet  I  adore  her." 

"  But  she  will  never  come  to  meet  you  beneath  the  tree." 

"  Yet  I  am  waiting  for  her."    .   .   . 

My  eyes  ran  down  the  page  and  stayed  at  this, 
against  which  Robert's  pencil  had  slid  and 
paused : 

"  But  with  what  do  you  appease  your  hunger?1'' 

"I  know    not,"   said  the  youth.       "It    may  be  that  I 


376     CONFESSIONS    OF   A   WIFE 

have  now  and  then   gathered   mulberries  from    the    nearest 
hedge. ' ' 

"  And  with  what  do  you  quench  your  thirst  ?  " 
"  That,    too,  I  know  »ot,"   replied  the  youth.       "  Per- 
chance I  have  sometimes  stooped  over  the  brook  which  flows 
bard  by." 

As  I  sat  with  the  book  on  my  lap,  Robert 
came  in.  At  first  I  did  not  speak ;  I  could  not. 
For  I  felt  that  the  Book  of  his  Heart  lay  open 
before  me,  and  he  felt  that  I  felt  it,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  be  said. 

"  My  husband  sent  me  — "  I  faltered. 

"  I  will  go  at  once,"  replied  the  doctor,  quietly. 
He  put  on  his  hat  and  drew  my  falling  cape 
over  my  shoulders,  and  we  started  out. 

He  asked  me  one  or  two  professional  ques- 
tions naturally  enough,  and  I  answered  them 
in  the  same  way.  We  crossed  the  hospital 
grounds,  and  the  lawn,  and  came  up  to  the  tree- 
house. 

When  we  reached  the  tree-house,  suddenly 
the  night  seemed  to  quiver  and  to  be  smitten 
through  and  through  with  reeling  music;  for 
Dana,  with  the  restlessness  of  his  nature  and  of 
his  convalescence,  had  come  to  the  piano  and 
begun  to  sing  —  the  dearest,  the  longest  silent 
of  his  songs : 


CONFESSIONS    OF  A   WIFE     377 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee, 
On  my  Arab  shod  with  fire. 

I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee! 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die! 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold! 

"Go  to  him,"  said  Robert,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  will  wait  till  he  has  finished  singing.  Then 
I  shall  follow  you." 


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